The Fates That Numbered Our Days
by Mnemoli
Summary: PART 2 of "THE ROGUE VARIABLE" Myra Larimer, no longer alone in the world, prepares to free her son, Shaun. But when the truth of her situation threatens to tear her apart, who will she turn to for comfort? Paladin Danse begins to realize how much Myra really means to him. When the mission and his reputation are on the line, will he be willing to face the truth?
1. The Debt Repaid

**CHAPTER 1: THE DEBT REPAID**

_Danse finds Myra and Mac at the Gunner camp and patches them up before whisking Myra back to the Prydwen. But when Preston asks Myra to help him retake the Castle, can Danse allow her to return to the field injured?_

* * *

The howling wind and whirr of rotors were loud in Paladin Danse's ears as he stood at the vertibird's open door, soaking in the landscape below with an almost childlike wonder. He adored flying. There was something so peaceful, so comforting about being in the sky. The world looked so much smaller from the air, so much easier to manage. Even the dangers of the Commonwealth seemed minuscule from above, the gore and conflict lost in a sea of patchwork landscapes that spread like a quilt below the aircraft.

"How much further?" he asked the Lancer-Captain who was piloting the craft.

"We should be approaching the drop zone in a few minutes, sir," the pilot replied.

"Outstanding!" Danse exclaimed, pulling on his helmet to protect his face. "I'll send a radio transmission to Scabbard with our coordinates when Larimer and I are ready to return."

"Yes, sir!" The pilot replied. "We'll be standing by. Good luck, sir."

Because of their tenuous relationship with the Minutemen, Maxson had ordered that no vertibird could land in the militia's territory unless the General agreed to it. Unfortunately, with the General missing, there was no one to negotiate Danse's arrival, so Maxson had explicitly told him that he wasn't allowed to land at Sanctuary. However, the young Elder hadn't said anything about bailing out just beyond the walls of the settlement.

"Thank you, Lancer-Captain," Danse said, his voice mechanical and muffled through the helmet's voice box. "Ad victoriam!"

Paladin Danse dropped from the vertibird onto the soft ground outside Sanctuary, frowning slightly as his boots sunk slightly into the soft loam of the riverbank. He sighed, removing his helmet before glancing around.

Danse took in the settlement's imposing walls with wide eyes. The island was extremely well-fortified, even by his high standards. To think that a small group of settlers had been able to produce such finely constructed palisades was both impressive and a little concerning. If this was what the Minutemen were really capable of, they were a more powerful force than Brotherhood Intelligence had assumed.

The Paladin approached the gate slowly so as not to startle the middle-aged man on guard duty. As he drew closer, the man rang a bell next to his station twice before eyeing the Paladin with suspicion.

"What's ya business here, fella?" the man asked menacingly, glowering down at the armored stranger.

"I'm here for General Larimer," Danse replied curtly. He wasn't overly fond of the man's tone. All the same, these were Myra's men. He should try to be polite. He gritted his teeth, flashing the man an unconvincing smile.

The man snorted, his sharp eyes bright with mirth. "Ya here to see the General? Well, of course ya are. That's the only reason anyone comes out here. Well, that an' trade, but ya don't look that much like a brahmin. Too bad for ya, but the General ain't here. Last time I saw her, she was headin' out with that MacCready fella."

Danse sighed. Of course he was too late. Damn Arthur and his bourbon for delaying the Paladin's departure. "Do you know where she went?" he asked.

"Hah!" the man retorted. "Ya think anyone tells me anything? No, sir, I'm just the gatekeeper. Nobody ever things that maybe I should be kept informed. Ya want to speak to Colonel Garvey. If he'll see ya, that is."

"Fine. May I please speak to Colonel Garvey?" the Paladin asked. If he wasn't so worried about Myra, he wouldn't put up with this sort of run-around. But at this moment, locating the missing Knight was more important to him.

"Who is it, Frank?" asked a gentle but firm voice from the other side of the wall.

The gatekeeper turned, glancing at a spot just behind the gate. "Fella hasn't told me his name, sir," the man replied. "Ya want me to ask him?"

Danse rolled his eyes. "I'm Senior Paladin Danse," he said, raising his voice so the newcomer could hear, "from the Brotherhood of Steel. I'm looking for Myra Larimer, General of the Minutemen. Please, let me in. It's rather...exposed out here."

The large gate creaked open, and Danse stepped carefully through. He gasped in astonishment as he glanced around the settlement, his eyes greedily taking in the sights.

Myra's town of Sanctuary was far grander than he'd expected. To hear her speak of it, the settlement was a few run-down old houses. This was far more than what he'd imagined. What had once been a bombed-out cul-du-sac had grown into a flourishing community. To his left, a bright neon sign advertised a local eatery, The Last Minuteman . To his right, he could see an open-air market full of shops, people of all ages browsing their wares. Farther down the road, he could just make out the edge of a basketball court, where a handful of children played. It was idyllic.

He was brought back to his present situation when someone loudly cleared their throat next to him. Danse glanced over to see a tall young man in a tan duster, a laser musket slung casually over one shoulder.

"So you're Myra's Paladin," the man said, his eyes sweeping over Danse dismissively. As he spoke, Danse recognized the voice he'd heard earlier. "Hmm. Well, you're about what I expected, honestly. Welcome to Sanctuary."

Danse frowned, unsure what the man's assessment meant. He also wasn't thrilled about being known as "Myra's Paladin." What had she been telling people? "Where's Larimer?" he said sternly. "If you know where she went, I need you to tell me."

The man sighed heavily. "I don't have to tell you anything, Paladin. You're on Minuteman soil, which means you aren't in charge here."

Danse scoffed. "And you are, I take it?"

The man nodded. "That's right. I'm Colonel Preston Garvey, second-in-command of the Commonwealth Minutemen…which I believe means that I technically outrank you. Imagine that."

Danse ignored the barb. As if their ranks were even comparable. He'd trained for years to attain the rank of Senior Paladin. This Garvey fellow looked like he'd just been handed the job because no one else wanted it. "So you're Preston," he replied. "Larimer's told me about you."

Preston smiled cryptically. "Trust me, I've heard all about you as well. And I'm pleased to meet you, as long as you respect our rules while you're here."

The Paladin sighed. "Very well," he muttered. It was in his best interest not to antagonize Myra's allies, even if he resented the way they behaved around him. It was times like this he really missed the Capital Wasteland. The Brotherhood hadn't always been liked there either, but at least people had treated them with respect.

Preston's smile grew. "Excellent! Now, you were asking about the General. I'm surprised she didn't tell you where she was headed."

"Not as surprised as I was," Danse replied bitterly. "I thought I was finally getting her to open up, and then she vanished. All she told me was that she was coming here and then going to find answers."

"Our General's never been great at communication, has she?" muttered Preston.

Danse shook his head. "How difficult is it to check in once in a while?"

The minuteman chuckled, "Well, it's good to know she's just as bad with you. I thought it was just me."

"I don't know if I'd classify that as 'good,'" the Paladin replied. "If she doesn't confide in you either, how are we supposed to locate her?"

"Did ya ever think that maybe she didn't tell ya where she was goin' 'cause she didn't want ya to follow her?" muttered Frank from his perch in the guard tower. Both Danse and Preston looked at the man with mild annoyance, eyes narrowed at the gatekeeper. "Jus sayin'," the man continued. "But, hey, ain't any of ol' Frank's business." He shrugged, turning back towards the gate entrance, and continued his watch.

Preston sighed. "Well, at least I can tell you what I know, Paladin. The General and MacCready left a couple of weeks ago. Last I heard, they were heading to Diamond City to talk to some detective. I'm not sure what their plans were from there, but I'll bet the detective knows."

"Thank you, Colonel," Danse replied. "That's actually quite helpful." He turned towards the gate, preparing to make his departure. It was a long walk to Diamond City, after all.

"Hey, Paladin?" asked Preston.

Danse looked back at the other man who watched the Paladin with pleading eyes. "Yes?" Danse replied.

"When you find her…" Preston thought for a moment before clearing his throat. "Ah, just tell her to be careful, will you?"

Danse nodded. "Affirmative." The Paladin nodded his thanks to the minuteman before proceeding back through the gate. As he stepped on the rickety wooden bridge that connected the island to the mainland, he was nearly bowled over by two young men in Minuteman uniforms who rushed across the structure, breathless.

"Colonel!" one of the men yelled, "the Foxes are headed for Tenpines, not Starlight! We saw their camp in the woods nearby."

"Are you certain?" Preston asked with a frown.

"Absolutely, sir," he continued. "If we hurry, we should be able to intercept them."

Preston nodded to Frank, who rang the gate bell furiously in alarm. "Gather everyone you can and send them to meet us at the Red Rocket. Quickly!" He turned to Danse. "I don't suppose you can wait a few days and help us out with these raiders, can you?"

Danse shook his head. "I'm not permitted to interfere in Minuteman affairs. Elder Maxson's orders. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Preston replied. "Just make sure Myra knows when you find her that she's missing all the fun."

With that, the Colonel ran past him, making his way towards Concord with the two messengers in tow. Danse watched them charge off before carefully crossing the bridge himself. Something was off about those two minutemen. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in their bearing worried him.

"Relax, Danse," he muttered to himself. "You're just not used to these militiamen."

With one last look up the road towards Preston's retreating figure, Danse began to hike cross-country, heading south.

* * *

Danse wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he approached the door to Valentine's Detective Agency. In spite of the frigid temperatures winter had brought to the Commonwealth, the physical exertion of his fast-paced trek to Diamond City had left him quite warm.

He'd made excellent time, all things considered, especially compared to his last trip to the bustling town. It probably helped that he hadn't stopped to help every person along the way as he had with Myra.

Danse eased the door open, stepping inside. The synth detective and its human secretary looked up in surprise as he approached the desk.

"Well, now," crooned the shabby synth that called itself Nick, "Never expected you'd be coming through that door all on your own. Last time we talked, you weren't exactly civil. What brings you in, pal?"

The Paladin turned to the secretary. The last thing he wanted was to discuss the current situation with a machine instead of a real person. "I'm looking for Knight Larimer. I have information that says she passed through this way."

The young woman smiled warmly at him, though the smile didn't quite make it to her eyes. "You'll have to ask Nick about that. He saw her more recently than I did."

Danse frowned. He was upset enough that they'd needed the synth's help to find Kellogg. He didn't want to owe the damned machine any more favors. "Where is she?" he asked, just the barest hint of menace at the edge of his question.

"Last time I saw Miss Larimer was about a week ago," mused the synth, its inhuman yellow eyes narrow and calculating. "She was in Goodneighbor, planning her next move. If you want to catch her there, you'd best get a move on. I got the impression she wasn't planning on staying long."

"Outstanding," muttered Danse. If there was one place in the entire Commonwealth he wanted to avoid returning to more than Nick's office, it was that trash fire of a town. He'd rather run unarmed into a deathclaw breeding ground than go willingly to Goodneighbor. At least deathclaws were honest about their intent to harm. What could Myra possibly be doing there?

He stormed out of the office in annoyance. It was like Myra was deliberately trying to make things difficult for him.

"You're welcome!" Nick called sarcastically at Danse's back as the door swung shut.

* * *

The sun had nearly dipped below the horizon by the time Danse made his way to Goodneighbor. Fortunately, many of the local raiders had decided to leave him alone. He wished the same could be said for the Super Mutants. He frowned, examining the dents in his leg armor left by Mutant Hound fangs, drool still bright on the battered metal. That was going to take forever to buff out. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.

The Paladin glanced around, his face contorted in disgust. Goodneighbor. Somehow, the town was even worse than Danse remembered it. The smell of piss and drunken vomit filled his nose as he stepped through the gates, making his eyes water. He tried to ignore the hostile stares the town's populace gave him as he stormed towards the Old State House. If there was one person who probably knew where Myra was, it was that lecherous ghoul who fancied himself the mayor of this hellhole.

"If it isn't the most uptight man in the Commonwealth," Hancock said with a grin as Danse stormed into his living room. "If you're looking for your lady friend, I'm afraid she's not here."

Danse glared at the ghoul. "What do you mean, she's not here, freak?"

That thing that called itself Hancock smirked at him, brushing the dust from the front of his coat idly. "I mean what I said. And here's a friendly word of advice, crew cut. Maybe if you want someone to do you a favor, you should start by not calling them a freak."

Danse sighed. He couldn't believe he was really doing this. If it was for anyone else... "Do you know where she went, Hancock?" he asked, as politely as he could muster.

The ghoul smiled, black eyes glinting in amusement. "See? Common courtesy. Was that so hard?"

"Don't push me, Hancock," Danse groaned. "It's been a long day."

"So it appears," the mayor mused. "You're even less pleasant than usual. Fine, I'll tell you what I know. As of last week, your gal was heading out towards the harbor with MacCready and Deacon. One of my friends saw her and MacCready sneaking out of one of those abandoned buildings down by the mouth of the Charles River a few hours after they left here. Seems they were heading towards Lexington."

The Paladin's eyes narrowed. MacCready, he'd expected. The other name was new to him, however. "Who is this Deacon?" Danse asked.

Hancock thought for a moment. "He's… well, he's not exactly a friend. Deacon's…a bit of an interesting case. You can never quite be sure what he's up to. But if Myra's with the two of them, she'll be fine. They're both capable snipers."

"So she's out in the wasteland with two cowards, then," Danse scoffed. He had no respect for men who hid during battle.

"Says the guy who wears power armor all the time," Hancock replied. "I suppose you'd better get moving before the trail goes cold. I'd offer to come with you, but wouldn't you know, I really don't like you very much."

"The feeling's completely mutual," Danse retorted. "Hopefully this is the last time I'll have to come to this den of iniquity."

Hancock laughed. "Great! Then you won't spoil it for the rest of us! Don't let Fahrenheit hit you on the way out, ok? Lord knows she wants to."

Danse glanced over at Hancock's bodyguard, who cracked her knuckles ominously, a wicked smile on her face. He sighed. One last courtesy. For Myra. "Thank you, Hancock," he muttered.

The ghoul grinned. "Yeah. Whatever. Now get out of here before you scare all the fun people away."

* * *

It took Danse nearly two more days to find Myra. He lost her trail in Lexington, where the only trace of her was a pile of destroyed synths torn apart by laser fire outside an old donut shop of all places. Other than that, there was nothing to indicate where she'd gone. He searched the nearby Super Duper Mart, in case she'd stopped for supplies, but all he found there was a nest of particularly angry ghouls.

By the third day of his search, Danse finally caught a break. It was only through pure luck that he happened upon a caravanner who'd seen her heading west along the highway a few hours before.

"I'd stay away from that area if I were you," the man muttered, his grimy face solemn. "There's a whole mess of Gunners up there, you know. Even with that fancy armor, I doubt you could take them on alone."

"I've been victorious against worse odds, civilian" Danse had replied, tossing the man a few caps for his trouble. "But I appreciate the help."

"Your funeral…" the man muttered, continuing east as Danse headed west towards a large overpass that loomed in the distance, a broken bridge to nowhere.

When the Paladin arrived at the base of the overpass, he could see the remains of a pretty spectacular battle. Several Gunners lay sprawled about in various unnatural poses, as though they had been pushed off the bridge. Still more had been reduced to ash, the signature tang of ozone still clinging in the air from laser fire. These remains were fresh. Whatever had transpired here had only recently concluded.

He pressed the button for the lift, frowning as he spotted a familiar newsboy cap lying upside-down in the carriage, charred and bloodied. Well, at least Myra would finally have to throw the damn thing out, if she was still alive. That was something.

Danse gripped his new laser rifle tightly, ready to face whatever was lurking atop the lift. But even all the preparation in the world couldn't ready him for the sight that greeted his eyes when he reached the top.

The first thing he saw was Myra. She was lying still, curled up on the filthy concrete in a large pool of blood. All around her were Gunner corpses, red rivulets slicking the pavement and turning those who had been disintegrated into small mounds of rust-colored mud. The Knight was conscious, just barely, gripping her ruined left shoulder weakly as tears of agony streamed down her unnaturally pale face. Her arm had been badly burned, the flesh stripped nearly to the bone in places. All things considered, it was amazing that she was still conscious. The leather pauldron that normally protected her shoulder had been torn off and lay a few feet away, blackened by a powerful laser blast.

It wasn't difficult to find the one responsible for the damage. The smoking remains of an assaultron lay at Larimer's right side, its left hand blade piercing her torso, holding back the flow of blood from what Danse hoped weren't any vital organs.

Further down the overpass, his back leaning against a burnt-out old bus, was MacCready. The scrawny man was wounded as well, though perhaps not as severely as Myra was. A cursory glance suggested a superficial head wound and possibly a few cracked ribs, from the way the mercenary was wheezing. In other words, he'd live, and that was all the attention Danse cared to waste on the man.

Relief and rage filled Danse in equal measure, and he stormed over to Myra's prone form. He took a knee beside her and eased her body into a seated position against his armored leg as gently as he could, his worried eyes scanning her for additional injuries.

"Well, hey, Danse," Myra moaned, flashing him a weak smile. "Sorry you missed the party."

"Soldier, what were you thinking?" he growled, holding her steady as he continued to check her over. "Did you seriously think attacking a heavily fortified position like this with just this insubordinate civilian as your backup was an acceptable risk?"

"I was...thinking that we could handle ourselves," she muttered. "I wasn't counting on...an assaultron."

"And you!" Danse bellowed, turning his furious gaze to bear down on the ex-Gunner, "How dare you put my Knight at risk over such a fool's errand?"

"Oh, is she yours?" hissed MacCready, his deep blue eyes ablaze. "I'm sorry. I must have missed the dog collar around her fuc… I mean, her freaking neck!"

Myra groaned in pain. "Danse, Mac, stop it! Enough!"

They both turned to look at her as she slowly pulled the assaultron arm from her side with a cry of agony. She struggled against Danse's grip, trying and failing to stand as dark blood oozed from the wound like syrup.

Without hesitation, Danse ripped his uniform hood from his head, pressing it tightly against her bleeding side, trying to slow the flowing mess. His hood wasn't the cleanest thing in the world, but it was what he had. Laundered cloth was in short supply in the wasteland, and Myra still hadn't returned his handkerchief.

Myra whimpered against him so pitifully that he could barely stop himself from throwing his other arm around her and holding her close, comforting her. The pain in her eyes was almost too much to bear. As Myra regained control of herself, she nodded a weak thank you to Danse before turning her head towards her mercenary friend. "Mac, I understand how it sounds, but Paladin Danse was just worried about me, in his way."

The mercenary scoffed, wincing in pain as he tried to move, but for once mercifully remained silent.

"Danse," she continued, gasping, "I'm here because MacCready needed my help, and I'm never going to leave someone I care about hanging, no matter how dangerous it is to help them. Now, I admit, I was underprepared for this mission, but it wasn't Mac's fault that we ran out of stimpacks. I should have been more careful. I'm sorry. Now are you going to patch us up, or are you just going to yell at at me until I bleed out?"

Danse sighed. "Very well. Here."

He tossed a stimpack to MacCready, pointedly ignoring the sardonic smirk the mercenary directed at him. Then, he turned back to Myra, and carefully administered stimpacks to her right shoulder and left abdomen.

"Damn, I hate needles," she hissed.

"Your displeasure is irrelevant, Knight," Danse mumbled. "You'll live, and that's the important thing. Now, are you going to come back with me willingly, or do I need to carry you over my back? I can't promise it will be comfortable, but it will get you back to the Prydwen . Damage like this is too severe for us to patch up in the field. We need Knight-Captain Cade."

Myra rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'm coming. Just let me make sure Mac's ok, and then we can go."

"Affirmative," Danse replied. He helped Myra to her feet, checking to make sure she could walk. She hissed as she took a few limping steps, her body not giving her the strength she needed.

Danse offered her his arm, but she shook her head. "Just go wait by the lift," Myra commanded through gritted teeth. "I can make it...fuck!...I can make it that far, I think."

The Paladin nodded, returning to the lift to wait for her. He wasn't sure he believed her, but he knew better than to point out how frail she was. Better for her to come to that conclusion on her own.

MacCready rushed past him towards Myra, worry clouding his deep blue eyes. Danse stood at a distance, watching the two of them as they talked. He couldn't understand what she saw in the man, why she'd intentionally put herself at risk to help him get revenge on his old colleagues. MacCready certainly wasn't much to look at, as far as Danse was concerned, all scrawny limbs and snark. Hell, the man couldn't even handle his own business. He had to drag a woman, albeit a very capable woman, in to fight for him.

MacCready's eyes bored through the pavement as he unclasped a pouch from his belt, handing it to Myra. Danse couldn't hear what was said, but the gesture spoke for itself. Well, at least the mercenary had enough dignity to refuse payment when his client was injured for his sake. That was something.

Myra gave the small man a quick hug before slowly limping to Danse's side, a satisfied smile cutting through the agony on her face. The Paladin ran over to meet her, offering her his arm again. This time, she accepted it, wincing in pain as she struggled to walk. "Well, this is embarrassing," she muttered.

"There's nothing wrong with accepting help, Larimer," Danse chided, "a lesson you clearly have yet to learn."

"Get in line," she muttered.

Danse eyed her, confused, but decided to let it go. "So, I assume your business with that man is concluded, then?" the Paladin asked coolly.

"Well, our business relationship is over, I'm pretty sure," Myra replied, moaning in pain. "But who knows? I kind of like traveling with him."

Danse frowned. "More than you like traveling with me?"

She laughed, a strangled chuckle. "Wow, Danse? Jealous much?"

"Hardly," he scoffed. "But you've been off galavanting through the Commonwealth alone for almost two months now. Did you forget that we had a mission of our own to complete?"

"Not at all," Myra shot back. "In fact, I spent a lot of that time actually working on a way to get to Shaun, to the Institute."

"Then why didn't you come to me for help?" Danse asked with a heavy sigh. "I know we don't always see eye to eye, Knight, but I'm your sponsor. It is my duty to fight by your side, particularly when it comes to your mission to infiltrate the Institute. I was… perturbed that you wouldn't ask me to come with you."

Myra's grip on his arm tightened as her legs threatened to give way, and she whimpered as she corrected herself, eyes bright with tears. "Danse, I was going to talk to Nick," she said softly. "I know you dislike him. And I really did mean to come back sooner, just…"

The Paladin sighed heavily, wiping the tension from his eyes with his free hand. "I understand. Someone needed your help."

Myra was silent as they entered the lift, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Hey," she finally said, turning to look at him.

"What is it, Larimer?" Danse asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Thanks for rescuing us," she replied with a slight smile.

Danse nodded. "I'll always do my best to look after you, soldier. Your weaselly friend, less so. But all the same, try not to make a habit of nearly getting yourself killed. It would make my reports much more time-consuming."

Myra stared at him in confusion. "Reports? Are you…was that a joke? I honestly can't tell."

"I never joke about paperwork, soldier," he said with the faintest of smiles. "Now let's get moving. I've stopped most of the bleeding, but Cade should still give you a thorough examination. Can you make it to the extraction point? The ground's too uneven here, so we have to head down to that bend in the road," he added, gesturing to a flat, open area just within eyesight.

"Well, if it's walking or being thrown over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes," Myra said with a swallowed cry of anguish, "I think I can manage." Danse looked her over. She was pale, shaking with effort as though even standing was nearly more than she could bear. She was in no shape to walk even a short distance further, that much was clear.

"There's… a third option," Danse managed, his cheeks burning.

"Yeah?" Myra asked. "What's that?"

Danse sighed. "I'm only offering because of how hard it is for you to stand. The most tactically advantageous solution would be...uh...would you...like me to carry you? In my arms, I mean. Not over my back."

Myra's eyes widened, a faint blush spreading across her high cheekbones. "Are you serious, Danse?"

He nodded. "Do you have any objections?"

She shook her head. "I mean...if you want to…"

Danse bent down, scooping her up as gently as he was able. Myra winced as her wounded torso came in contact with the cold steel of his armor, but she quickly settled into his arms. Myra's legs draped softly over one arm as Danse wrapped the other carefully around her lower back, avoiding her injuries as best as he could. Myra tried to wrap her good arm around his neck, but found it impossible with his pauldrons, so she grabbed one of the handles on the front of the power armor to stabilize herself instead.

Danse cleared his throat awkwardly, trying not to think about the position they were in. This was simply the least jarring way to transport her back to the Prydwen . That was all. "Are you...are you comfortable enough?" he asked quietly.

Myra looked up at him, something soft and fragile in her green eyes. She bit her lower lip slightly, nodding as her blush deepened. Danse felt his stomach tighten as he looked at her, simultaneously trying to calm his mind and doing his best to remember every detail of her face. His worst fears had almost been realized. Myra had almost died. Again. She had almost died, and he hadn't been there to protect her. He'd almost arrived too late. The thought overwhelmed him, retroactive terror sweeping through his body like ice in his veins.

He'd lost men before, and it always pained him deeply. But this feeling, this creeping dread that paralyzed him...he had only felt this twice before. The first had been when Arthur had nearly been torn in half by a deathclaw. The second was when Danse had found Cutler, had been forced to kill the monster he'd become.

"So, are we going back to the Prydwen , Danse, or are you just going to hold me for a while?" Myra asked after a while, the softness in her eyes turning to amusement.

Danse grimaced, regaining control of himself as best as he could. "Affirmative. Hold on, I'll try not to jostle you too much, but I can't promise that this will be a smooth trip."

* * *

Their return to the Prydwen had been mostly a quiet one, both Danse and Myra lost in their own thoughts. It was just as well. Danse wasn't entirely sure how to ask her about her trip to Nahant, or any of the other things that had happened since she'd left the airship. He supposed that she would tell him when she was ready. For now, it was enough that she was safe. It was enough that she was home.

Much to Myra's dismay, Cade ordered her to take three weeks of bed rest so her wounds would heal properly. Her vertibird privileges were suspended, an extra precaution to prevent her from leaving without permission. All in all, it was a slap on the wrist considering how long she'd been out of contact, and under Danse's watchful glare, she had complied. At least for the first few days.

Her wounds were even more severe than Danse had assumed. Three surgeries had been required to seal the gash on her side. The blades had nicked her kidney, but only slightly. Had the wound been any deeper, she would have been dead long before Danse had arrived on the scene. Her burned shoulder, too, proved difficult to heal, even with the best medicine the Brotherhood had to offer. She'd been quite fortunate that it hadn't been her dominant arm. Even so, Cade couldn't guarantee that she'd be able to regain a full range of motion in the affected limb.

Danse visited her every day while she recovered, usually with his chessboard in tow to keep her sharp. Even with all the practice she was getting in, Myra continued to lose every single match. Still, she was improving, little by little. Danse was beginning to find it harder to corner her.

The Paladin was not the only frequent visitor to the medical bay. More than once, he caught Maxson leaving the room, his face more relaxed than it normally was. Danse wondered what the two of them could possibly be talking about, but he never had the heart to ask either of them. Part of him was worried that he wouldn't like the answer.

Scribe Haylen also came by a few times, claiming that she had reports to deliver on the situation in Cambridge. But Danse observed that she spent far less time briefing the Paladin and far more time laughing and chatting with Myra. He didn't particularly mind. It was good to see the two of them getting along so well, and he knew that Myra must have been getting bored just stuck in bed all the time. She was too much like Danse to be comfortable sitting around too long. The two of them were people of action, not leisure. And as the days dragged on, it became more and more obvious that Myra was eager to leave. Eventually, he realized, there would be no keeping her still. All the attention and visitors were just delaying the inevitable.

About two weeks after they had returned to the airship, Danse was looking forward to a night of peace and quiet in his quarters. He had just finished cleaning and reassembling his laser rifle when he heard a knock on his door. He opened it, only to be greeted by Myra's haggard face. She shot him an apologetic smile.

"May I come in, Paladin?" she asked. "I need your help."

Danse sighed, holding the door open for her. "What are you doing out of the infirmary? You're supposed to be resting, Knight."

"I know, Danse. I know. But I just received urgent news from Preston. He's asking for my help to recapture the Castle."

Danse frowned. "The Castle?"

"It's some old fort the Minutemen used to be based out of," she explained. "Apparently they had to abandon it a while back because of a sea monster or something. So sea monsters are a thing now, I guess. That was a delightful revelation."

"Get to the point, Larimer," Danse replied. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Preston wants me to lead the charge and help take the fort back. I was hoping you could help me get a vertibird, since I'm still not allowed to use one without permission."

The Paladin shook his head. "Larimer, there's no way you're well enough to lead an assault like that. Look at you. You can barely stand."

"I have to, Danse," she retorted. "The Minutemen need me, whether you like it or not. I promised Preston I would help if he ever contacted me again, so I have to do it. What kind of General would I be if I refused to lead my men?"

"But you're injured!" Danse replied. "Surely Colonel Garvey would understand that. Cade still hasn't cleared you for field duty, and frankly, I agree. You're extremely lucky that assaultron didn't kill you."

Myra sighed. "Well, good thing I'm not asking Cade for permission. I'm fine, Danse. Just a little tender. Nothing an extra stim or two can't take care of. Now are you going to help me get off this damned airship, or do I have to jump off the flight deck and swim to the Castle? You know I will if I have to."

Danse knew it wasn't an idle threat. If anyone was crazy enough to attempt that sort of reckless stunt, it was Myra. "Very well," he muttered, "but I have a few conditions."

"Yeah?" Myra asked, her eyes lighting up eagerly.

"First," the Paladin replied, "you have to take me with you so I can protect you."

Myra smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that. It wouldn't be the same without you, Danse."

"Second, you have to promise me that you won't take any unnecessary risks. If you open that wound again, we might not be able to patch you up as well in the field."

"That's fair," Myra acknowledged. "I'll do my best to stay safe. Anything else?"

Danse eyed her carefully. He knew this would be the hardest thing to get her to agree to. "You need to wear your power armor. If the Castle is as dangerous as you seem to think it is, you need to be well-protected."

Myra shook her head adamantly. "That's where I draw the line, Danse. I'm sorry, but power armor and I have a history. I don't like my movements being restricted."

He sighed. "Is that your concern? If it's fitted to you properly, soldier, power armor doesn't restrict your movements at all."

"All the same, I'd prefer not to wear it. The damned claustrophobia from the cryo chamber…" She shuddered. "I'm still not over it."

Danse hadn't considered that. Was her past really the reason she was so adamant about not wearing her armor? He had to admit that it made sense. Trauma was a strange beast. "Then will you at least wear these?" he asked, gesturing to a metal crate next to his bed.

Myra opened the crate curiously to find a full set of Brotherhood heavy combat armor. She looked at him in confusion. "Why do you have this?"

"It's my set," Danse replied, pulling the pieces carefully from the box, "from back when I first joined the Brotherhood, a gift from my sponsor. I never wear it, since I prefer my power armor, but I held on to it for sentimental reasons. It might be a bit loose on you, but we can adjust the straps. And you can still wear your flannel underneath, if you'd like."

Myra stared at him in shock. "Danse, I can't accept this."

He frowned. "Why not? It's just some armor."

"No, it isn't," she replied softly. "It means something to you. What if it gets destroyed?"

"Then it will have served its purpose and protected you," he replied. "It isn't serving any real purpose just collecting dust. I...I'd like you to have it. Please."

"No. It's too much, Danse."

The Paladin sighed heavily. "Then I'm afraid I can't allow you to leave the Prydwen . Either wear your power armor, or take the combat armor. Otherwise, I'll throw you in the brig, if that's what it will take to keep you safe. You're my responsibility, Larimer. If anything happened to you..." Danse's voice trailed off as he realized that he wasn't sure what he'd do if Myra got herself killed. He wished he could say that he'd mourn her and learn to move forward, like he did with everyone he'd lost before. So why did it feel like that wouldn't be possible this time?

"Fine, you stubborn…" Myra, mumbled rolling her eyes. She pulled on the pieces of combat armor slowly, starting with the legs. She hissed in pain as she tried to pull on the chest piece, the hard material rubbing up against her wound.

"Here," said Danse quietly. "Let me help you." He gently eased the chest piece into position around her torso, pulling the straps slowly and carefully until the armor fit snugly against her upper body. Due to the differences in their body shapes, it didn't fit her perfectly, and there were a few small gaps around her hips and chest. However, it was certainly more protection than Myra usually wore. Danse breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't as durable as power armor, but if it kept her alive, it would be more than enough.

"It's not bad. Thank you, Paladin," Myra murmured softly, gazing up at him. Her eyes were warm, a lush green no longer found in the world. Danse found himself caught up in them, unable to break her gaze.

As they stood, eyes locked, Danse found himself acutely aware of how close they were. He could almost feel her breath on his skin as she stood facing him, his hands still resting on the armor which covered her hips. It would take so little effort to close the miniscule gap between them, to hold her in his arms, to press his lips to hers again. The compulsion to be close to her almost overwhelmed his reason.

Almost. Danse cleared his throat, turning away from Myra. He couldn't let these lapses in his self-control compromise the trust that he'd been working so hard to build between them. He picked the combat armor helmet off of his bed, handing it to her.

Myra held the helmet in her hands, turning it over with a look of dismay. "Do I have to wear this part? It's so dorky."

"Worse than the hats your Minutemen wear?" Danse asked.

"Much. Do I have to?"

He frowned. "Knight-Sergeant Dawes, the soldier I lost at Fort Strong...he died because he wasn't wearing his helmet. He took a strike from a super sledge directly to the skull. I'd rather not see that happen to you."

Myra rolled her eyes. "So I'll avoid blows to the head. Seriously, Danse, if you cover me up any more, my troops won't recognize me."

He sighed, taking the helmet back from her and setting it down on his bed. "To tell you the truth, I always disliked that helmet too. It made my head look too big."

Myra snorted. "Well, you do have a big head."

"Or maybe I should make you wear it," Danse replied with a faint smile, "to remind you who's in charge."

"Ooh!" teased Myra with a cheeky grin. "Someone's feeling dominant. I like it."

Danse frowned, his ears burning. "Knight, just...no. Go pack."

She chuckled as Danse opened the door of his quarters, pushing her gently outside. "Fine. But I'll be back soon. We leave at dawn."

Danse shook his head as he closed the door, filling his pack with all the essentials he could think of. Whatever Myra was dragging him into this time, he wanted to be prepared.


	2. The Kraken

**CHAPTER 2: THE KRAKEN**

_Myra and Danse help Preston retake the Castle. When Danse is critically wounded by the Mirelurk Queen while protecting Myra, she and Preston head off on an emergency mission to find a doctor._

* * *

There was a hush that hung thick in the air, as heavy as the fog that rolled across Castle Island from the harbor. Preston drummed his fingers on the barrel of his laser musket, his eyes distant as he looked beyond the shattered window of an old diner towards the ruins of the Minutemen's most important stronghold.

He had never had the opportunity to visit the Castle while it was operational, had merely cut his teeth on tales about the fortress as he'd come up the ranks. He'd had no idea how huge the structure really was, or in how terrible a condition the great stone walls were really in. The Castle was the perfect symbol for the Minutemen, he thought as his eyes took in the breached walls that had once been considered so impenetrable. It was a powerful structure, brought low by neglect, hardship, and years of complacency. Yet the old fort, like the Minutemen, somehow had endured.

Yet now, enduring wasn't enough, not with the threat of the Institute looming ever greater over the Commonwealth. The secretive organization, long content with small-scale experiments on the surface, was beginning to stir. Something big was going to happen, and soon. The Minutemen had to be ready, not just to survive, but to fight back.

A whir of vertibird engines caught Preston's ear, and he rushed out of the ruined diner, gripping his laser musket tightly in case of attack. When he neared the landing vehicle, however, the Colonel relaxed somewhat. As he'd hoped, Myra was seated on the craft's small bench, almost unrecognizable under a heavy suit of combat armor.

"General!" Preston exclaimed, slinging his musket over his shoulder. "So good to see you again. I'm glad you got my message."

Myra beamed back at him from the small aircraft. "Like I'd miss it, Preston. Not every day I get to hunt an actual sea monster."

The ground shook slightly as Paladin Danse jumped from the vertibird, his power armor striking the earth with a thud. The soldier held his arms out for Myra, who walked to the edge of the vehicle, muttering under her breath. Danse picked the General up, lifting her carefully and gently lowering her to the ground.

Preston rolled his eyes. There was no reason he could see why such an action was necessary. Myra was more than capable of using a ladder. The General walked over to Preston, pulling him into a tight hug. He returned it warmly.

"I missed you, Myra," Preston said, his eyes connecting with Danse's over the General's shoulder. The Paladin's deep brown eyes had a warning edge to them that made Preston nervous, and he gulped slightly as his arms loosened around Myra's back.

"I missed you too," Myra replied softly, pulling away to look at the Colonel. "You're looking well. How are our settlements doing?"

"I think we finally managed to stop the raider problem we've been having," Preston replied. "Tenpines is still cleaning up after the last scuffle, but it's going well. Oberland and Starlight have both grown quite a bit, and we've been able to establish a few new trade routes. I think we're close to convincing County Crossing and Greentop Nursery to join us as well. That's why I realized that we needed to retake the Castle."

"Sounds like you've accomplished quite a lot since the last time we saw each other, Preston," she replied, smacking him gently on the back. Myra glanced over at the ruined fortress. "I'm happy to help, but, what's so great about that heap of rubble, anyway?"

Danse cleared his throat. "Knight, that 'heap of rubble' is Fort Independence, an important piece of Commonwealth history. Show some respect."

Preston nodded at the Paladin with a smile. "You know your stuff, Paladin! But it's not just a piece of history. The Castle is also home to an enormous broadcasting station that we Minutemen once used to communicate with our settlements. It's how we were able to send teams to anyone who needed our help. I'm hoping that we can get it up and running again so it's easier for us to coordinate missions over long distances."

"That would be useful," Myra replied. "It'd also make it easier for me to come and go as I need to without having to worry you, Preston."

Preston nodded. "That's the other reason. I know I can't ask you to abandon your search for your son, and I don't want to. But I can't run the Minutemen all on my own, General. When you agreed to help me, I thought...well, I figured you'd be a bit more available."

"Don't worry, Preston," she said with a reassuring grin. "If we pull this off, I'll only ever be a broadcast away. Now what's the..."

Myra's voice trailed off as a dark shape bounded towards her, barking excitedly. She beamed at the large dog as he collided with her, nearly knocking her off her feet. Danse placed an armored hand on her back, holding her steady.

"You brought Dogmeat to a war zone?" Myra asked Preston. "I thought I asked you to keep him safe."

"More like I wasn't able to convince him to stay behind," Preston replied defensively. "He missed you, you know."

"I missed you too, buddy!" she cried, scratching the german shepherd behind the ears as his tail thwacked against her leg happily. "Yes I did! Oh, yes I did!"

"Hello again, Dogmeat," said Paladin Danse, reaching down with an open hand for the dog to sniff. Dogmeat barked once, then circled the Paladin, his tongue lolling in excitement at the sight of yet another friend.

Preston grinned at the armored man. "Looks like Dogmeat's pretty fond of you, Paladin."

"The feeling is definitely mutual," Danse replied. "He's a good little soldier, and his tracking abilities are second to none." He pulled a small hunk of radstag meat out of his pack, offering it to Dogmeat. The german shepherd gobbled the treat down greedily, his amber eyes bright with joy as Danse patted him carefully and affectionately on the head. The dog bounded off, returning with a large stick which he offered to the Paladin with pleading eyes. Danse chuckled, throwing the stick for the large dog. "Go get it, boy!" he called as Dogmeat bounded after the projectile.

"So what's the plan, Preston?" Myra asked as she watched Danse and Dogmeat play, a soft smile setting her face aglow. "I assume you have one."

"Absolutely," the Colonel replied. I've been giving it a lot of thought, ever since you agreed to lead the Minutemen. I wish we had a little more time to prepare, but I think we'll be able to pull this off."

Myra frowned slightly. "Why don't we have time, Preston?"

"There's…" his voice trailed off as Myra's eyes met his. He wasn't ready to give her an answer, not yet. There were too many unknown variables, too many gaps in his information. "I just want to make sure we have a better line of communication set up in case we need to mobilize quickly," he concluded.

Myra sighed. "You're hiding something from me, Preston. Why?"

"I don't want to worry you if I'm wrong, that's all," he said. "I promise, as soon as I'm sure, I'll let you know. For now, please, just trust me."

The General stared at him, her bright green eyes analyzing his face for any clues. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. There was something about the look she was giving him that made him feel ashamed. He asked for her trust, for her help. Was it really too much for him to trust her too?

Finally, the silence was too much for him. "Come inside and meet the others," Preston said, gesturing to the small diner. "They're all eager to finally get to know their General."

"It would be good to know what we're working with," Myra said simply, her gaze finally leaving him. She whistled, drawing the attention of her other companions. "Danse! Dogmeat! Let's go inside."

Danse followed quickly behind her and Preston, Dogmeat at his heels. As they entered the bombed-out diner, Myra frowned, looking around the room with something bordering on disdain.

"What's wrong, Myra?" asked Preston.

The General gestured around the room to the three minutemen who occupied it. "You said you wanted to take back the fort," she replied. "Is this really enough people for us to do that with?"

The Colonel sighed. "I gathered who I could. You know how it is, General. We can't just abandon our settlements and concentrate our full force on one spot. Besides, what we lack in numbers, we make up for in expertise."

He gestured to a thin blonde man who was fiddling with a small radio much like the one Preston wore on his chest. "Take Jake Forrester, for example," Preston continued. "Jake's our resident electronics expert. Ever since he came to Sanctuary, he's been helping Sturges with a few projects, and it was hard talking Brian into letting him come with us. You know how he can be."

Myra chuckled. "Oh, man. Sturges is bad enough when it comes to lending out wrenches. I can't imagine he was happy that you were borrowing his assistant."

Preston nodded. "Not just borrowed. Jake will be staying here permanently. When we retake the Castle, Jake's the one who will be running our radio broadcast. He's also pretty handy with explosives, to hear him tell it."

"It's an honor," the young man said softly, not making eye contact. He continued to fiddle with the radio, his face screwed up in concentration.

"Honor be damned," cried a gravely female voice. "When do we start killing stuff?" Myra glanced over at a small woman who sat on one of the old tables, a militia hat pulled down at a jaunty angle over half of her forehead. The woman pulled a pearl-handled pistol from her holster, using it to gesture out at the fort. "From what I hear, there's a hell of a fight waiting for us," she continued, her pale grey eyes sparkling in amusement.

Preston shook his head with a soft sigh. "General, meet Kestrel Davis. She's a quick shot, quicker with her tongue, so you two should be right at home with each other. Kes here rolled into Tenpines Bluff with a small gang of...um...raiders last month. I managed to convince her to join us instead. She might be rough around the edges, but she's very handy in a firefight."

Kes laughed. "Oh, that's how we're playing it, Colonel?" She turned to Myra. "Don't listen to him. I volunteered for this. The Commonwealth's got a lot of assholes in it, but you guys seemed to be the least terrible, so I signed up."

Myra smiled at the other woman. "I've heard of worse reasons. Nice to meet you, Kestrel."

"I bet," the woman murmured.

"I'm just happy to be here," another voice piped up from behind the diner's counter. A young man hopped over the counter, dark curls framing his face like a cherub's. He held out a hand to Myra, which she shook warmly. "Zev Stern, ma'am. And may I say, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Mr. MacCready speaks very...well, he speaks of you," the boy added with a nervous smile.

"Zev is from our new settlement at Starlight," Preston added. "He and his brother Dov moved there together, and have both been great assets to that community. It's thanks to him we have so many supplies here at our disposal. He's got a great eye for salvage, and he's a quick learner."

"Not bad, Preston," Myra murmured to her second-in-command. "It seems like you put a good team together." She turned to the minutemen, smiling kindly at them. "It's a pleasure to meet you all. As I'm sure you already know, I'm General Myra Larimer."

"Who's the guy in the power armor?" Zev asked, his voice hushed with awe. "And would he mind if I touched it? I've never actually seen a set up close before."

Danse cleared his throat. "I'd prefer it if you didn't, civilian."

Myra chuckled. "This is my good friend, Senior Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel."

Kestrel's eyes narrowed. "And here I thought the Minutemen were all about freedom. At least that's the line Garvey sold me when I took this gig. Why are we working with the fucking Brotherhood of Steel?"

Danse opened his mouth to reply, but Myra stepped in front of him, her smile wavering slightly. "Miss Davis," she said gently, a hint of warning to her voice, "a man I respect greatly once told me that you can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth. I know you're used to a...certain way of life that probably doesn't allow much for trust. But Paladin Danse has sure as hell earned my trust, and as long as you serve under me, you will respect my judgement on such matters. Is that clear?"

Kestrel mumbled something under her breath, but nodded. "Yes, boss."

"That's better," Myra replied with a nod. "I know it will be difficult for most of you to get used to this, but if we're going to survive out here, we're going to need to learn from the other organizations in the Commonwealth. If the Institute is even half the threat everyone I've met believes they are, we have to be prepared to fight them by any means necessary. If you're unwilling to do that, you should leave now, go back to your farms, and hope the boogeyman doesn't find you. But if we fail in our mission, know that the monster in the Commonwealth's closet will be coming for you next. And if the Minutemen are gone, there won't be anyone left to protect you."

Preston stared at her, slack-jawed. When had Myra Larimer, the brash survivor who didn't depend on anyone, become so commanding? "Where'd that come from?" he whispered to her.

Myra's eyes danced with amusement. "Oh, just something a friend of mine suggested," she whispered back. "He said it's always good to remind people why they follow you. Did it sound ok?"

The Colonel chuckled. "We'll make a real general of you yet." He spoke up so the others could hear his next words. "General, what do you think? Can we pull this off?"

Myra nodded. "I mean, I'm certainly willing to try. I assume you already gave them the 'hey, you're volunteers so you don't have to do this if you don't want to' speech?"

"Why do you think there's just the three of them?" Preston replied. "I left Sanctuary with over a dozen. The closer we got to the Castle...well, you know how it is."

Myra sighed. "I'm sure you did your best. Hey, at least the people who stayed seem capable."

"I would still rather have numbers," muttered Danse, looking around. "No offense, but these minutemen are under-armored and under-trained. Do you really think that we can besiege a fort with just six people and a dog?"

Preston rolled his eyes. "I understand that, Paladin. But unlike the Brotherhood of Steel, my men have lives outside of battle. Many of them have families. I can't force them to come and fight for us whenever we want them to. We only use volunteers, and these are the people who volunteered."

Myra frowned. "What about MacCready?"

"I sent him a letter by courier," Preston replied, "but I haven't heard anything back. Hopefully he'll join us soon, but we can't wait around for him."

"So at best, that's seven people and a dog," Danse replied with a frown. "Outstanding."

"Danse, please," replied Myra, placing a hand on his arm. "I know it's a risk, but I think we might be able to win this thing. I mean, it's just a bunch of mirelurks. How bad can it be?"

* * *

Nearly three hours later, the Castle was as good as won. The mirelurks who had inhabited the fort had been killed, their bodies piled in a corner to be processed for food later. The foul sea creatures had turned the ruined structure into a nesting ground, which the Minutemen had found out the hard way when Zev ran screaming from one of the rooms, three hatchlings scuttling behind him menacingly. They'd put the baby mirelurks down with relative ease, but Myra had ordered Preston and the others to destroy the remaining eggs, just in case a larger swarm emerged all at once.

As the Minutemen and Danse continued destroying the mirelurk egg clutches, the ground shook violently.

"What the hell?" cried Kestrel, clinging to the metal railing on the stairs. "I didn't know you got earthquakes this far east!"

"We don't," Preston replied as he glanced around in panic, searching for an explanation. It didn't take long for him to get one. A geyser of water erupted from the nearby pond, accompanied by a furious, inhuman scream.

Preston watched in horror as a huge creature emerged from the lake. It stood taller than the intact walls of the fort, all legs and massive claws and armored shell. The beast slammed against the crumbling western wall, sending large chunks of stone flying into the courtyard.

Jake Forrester screamed in agony as a large, jagged slab of grey rock rolled over him, pinning his lower body under its weight. Myra ran to him, a stimpack already in her hand.

"Jake!" she cried. "Are you ok?"

"I...I think my leg's shattered," the young man gasped. "General, please, I…"

The creature's eyestalks turned at the sound of Myra's voice, and the hulking monstrocity barreled towards them, snapping its claws.

"What the hell is that thing?" shrieked Myra, taking aim at the hulking armored crustacean with her laser rifle.

"We've got a Mirelurk Queen incoming!" Danse shouted in reply. "Everyone, fall back into the keep! Don't let her spit on you! We'll take turns wounding her from cover! Move!"

The Minutemen scattered, rushing to find shelter as the Mirelurk Queen scuttled slowly over the ruined west wall of the Castle, her eyestalks focused directly on Myra and the trapped minuteman.

"General!" Preston screamed as the creature rounded on her. "Get out of there!"

"Like hell!" Myra shot back. "I can't just leave Jake to die! We need him!"

"General…" rasped the man, "no. I'm...dead already. My leg's...crushed. Save yourself."

Before she had a chance to protest further, the Queen reared her head, claws snapping within inches of Myra's face. Her eyes ablaze with fear and rage, the General ran backwards with a primal scream, firing her laser rifle as she retreated towards the Castle's walls.

Preston did his best to cover her retreat, but the Queen's massive limbs made the monster much faster than Myra. It was gaining on her, and quickly. Suddenly, Myra tripped over one of the destroyed mirelurk nests, falling backwards with a cry of horror and pain. A dark stain spread across the right side of her torso as she struggled to stand. The creature hadn't touched her. When had she been injured?

"Myra!" cried Preston, leaping from cover and dashing towards her as laser musket fire screamed past him. But he was too far away. He'd never get to her in time.

Preston's view of the terrifying scene in front of him was suddenly cut off by a bolt of steel as Paladin Danse tore past him. "I've got her, Colonel!" yelled the Paladin. "Get Forrester to safety."

Danse scooped Myra up with one arm, depositing her safely behind him as the Mirelurk Queen swooped downward with her cruel claws. The Paladin caught the attack with his right arm as he fired several laser rounds into the beast with his left, crying out in pain as the claws sheared through the protective metal of his power armor.

"Larimer," groaned Danse, dropping his gun in favor of bracing his wounded arm with his stronger, dominant one, protecting his face as best as he could. His voice was almost imperceptible under the scraping screech of chitin on steel as the Queen slashed down at him again. "Exterminate that damned thing! Just fire past me. I'll hold her attacks back as long as I can."

Preston couldn't hear her reply, but he saw the Paladin nod as Myra readied her gun once more. Hot, red bursts of laser fire pierced the air as the General fired into the Queen's torso and head repeatedly. Preston didn't hesitate a moment longer, rushing for the crumbled wall and the trapped minuteman.

"Jake! I've got you, come on…" he muttered, pulling the debris from the man's shattered leg. He wouldn't be running for a while, but if they could make it back to the safety of the keep and get a splint on him, he'd live.

As Preston and Jake hobbled back to safety, Myra continued firing at the Mirelurk Queen. Her shots were echoed by laser and gunfire from the two minutemen who remained in the fight, though their shots were less powerful, less precise, and less frequent. Kes had damaged her dominant arm in the initial assault, so the savage young woman was shooting southpaw, screaming obscenities the entire time. Zev had never even held a laser musket before, but he was holding his own. They were doing their best, but Preston couldn't shake the feeling that Danse had been right all along. They never should have attempted to retake the Castle with only six people.

Six people and a dog. Where the hell was Dogmeat? Preston scanned the battlefield for him, hoping that the large dog was ok. Finally, he spotted him, a flash of brown and black fur on top of one of the Castle's remaining ramparts. With a howl of rage, Dogmeat leapt from the fort's wall onto the back of the Mirelurk Queen, sinking his teeth into the creature's neck. The monster screamed in agony, rearing back once more on its hind legs. It jerked from side to side, shaking the german shepherd loose. He smacked into the wall with a whine, struggling for a moment before lying still.

"God damn it, you stupid dog!" Myra screamed as he landed near her and Danse. "What the hell were you thinking?"

She didn't even have time to move towards her furry companion before the Queen resumed her assault on Myra and the Paladin. The creature pulled its massive arm back before swinging its snapping claw at Danse's torso, tearing large slashes across his chest as though his power armor were made of aluminum foil. The Paladin cried out in pain as blood coated the ground in front of them, faltering slightly as his body shuddered. Myra braced herself against his back, struggling to keep him stable.

"Danse, come on!" she screamed. "You have to retreat!"

"Absolutely not!" he bellowed. "I'm not leaving until you do!"

"Well, I can't leave until we kill this thing, or it'll wipe out my men," Myra replied. "So hang in there."

"Affirmative!"

No sooner had the two of them regained their footing when the Mirelurk Queen spewed green, viscous slime from her mouth, coating Danse and the ground around them.

The Paladin roared in agony, dropping to one knee with a shudder. "Knight!" he yelled, "Stay back! This creature's saliva is highly corrosive! I can't...please, get out of here!"

"Danse!" shrieked Myra, pulling at his arm, "No! You have to get up! I'm not leaving you!"

He shook his head. "Go while you...still can." he gasped, collapsing to his hands and knees. "Ad...victoriam, Myra. It's...been an...I wish..."

"Damn it, don't you dare! Don't you fucking die on me, ok?" she screamed in reply, pulling herself up with a grimace, her face pale with fear. "Hang in there, Danse!"

Myra quickly limped towards the ruined northern wall, waving her arms frantically. "Come here, you bitch!" she yelled at the Mirelurk Queen. "You want to finish me off like I finished off your babies?"

The Queen broke off its assault on Danse, skittering angrily towards the General. Myra whimpered in pain as she hobbled away on her twisted ankle, trying to get as far from the others as she could. Once the two reached the edge of the Castle's walls, Myra stopped running. She loosened her backpack, holding it in her right hand.

"Well, I'm glad I keep picking up explosives," Myra hissed, throwing the pack at the approaching monster. She gasped in pain as the movement caused even more blood to ooze from her wounded side. "I really hope I don't have anything valuable in there." She pulled the trigger of her laser rifle, aiming for her pack as it collided with the massive crustacean's torso.

The bag exploded in an enormous firestorm, as did a good chunk of the Mirelurk Queen. The beast's remaining limbs thrashed as it fell, still chasing after the woman who had finally downed it.

Myra stood over the creature's head, watching as its jaws opened and shut in a last desperate attempt to wound the General. Her face screwed up with disgust, pain, and the last remnants of fear as she pressed the rifle against the creature's neck. She whispered something to the creature before pulling the trigger, blowing the monstrous mirelurk's head off in a burst of red light and green blood. She dropped her weapon, rocking back and forth on unsteady feet.

Preston ran to the General's side as she collapsed, exhausted, catching her in his arms. "General, are you all right?" he asked, bracing her head against his arm. Large amounts of bright blood seeped from beneath her combat armor, staining her torso, but he saw no evidence of a recent injury to the area. Had she been wounded before the battle?

Myra nodded. "I'm fine. Just overwhelmed. Where...how's Danse? Dogmeat…?"

"I don't know," Preston replied.

"Well, go check on them! What are you wasting time with me for? I just need a moment to rest."

Preston thought about objecting, about pointing out the blood loss she'd sustained, but the terror in her eyes as she asked about her fallen companions told him that it would be better for him to listen to her. He eased her down by the massive mirelurk corpse before racing across the courtyard towards the broken wall. Kestrel knelt over Dogmeat, carefully administering a stimpack to the battered dog.

"How is he, Davis?" he asked softly.

The westerner looked up at him with tired eyes. "He'll live, Colonel. Damn crazy dog. He's a lucky fellow. If he'd hit the wall any harder, we'd all be eating dog instead of crab tonight. He won't be chasing squirrels for a while, but he'll live."

"Not exactly what I wanted to hear, Kes, but I'll take it," Preston replied. He made his way carefully around the pooling acid to where the Paladin lay face-down in the dirt. Preston removed the fusion core from the suit and it eased open, the metal armor hissing angrily as it released the soldier's body.

Danse was a fairly muscular man, so it took Preston quite a bit of effort and Zev's help to extract him from his power armor. As they turned him over, Preston gasped at the sight of the Paladin's torn, burned flesh and ravaged uniform. The armor had managed to protect Danse quite a bit, but the Queen's assault had still wounded him grievously. They removed his flight suit down to the waist, hoping to better assess the damage.

Danse's right arm bore a massive cut that ran bone-deep from wrist to elbow. That was worrying enough, but his torso had taken the brunt of the damage. The Paladin's chest and abdomen marred by multiple thick lacerations and quite a few acid burns as well as what Preston suspected were several broken ribs. Mercifully, his face was mostly intact, save for a painful-looking acid burn across his left cheek and chin. Only time would tell if the damage would scar.

Preston and Zev carefully hauled the unconscious Paladin into the relative security of the keep, laying him out on a large bed in the main hall. Myra staggered in, wheezing as she leaned against the doorframe. Her eyes, bloodshot and battleworn, were focused on Danse's still, pale body.

"Is he going to be ok?" she asked softly.

Preston shook his head. "I don't know. He's hurt pretty bad, General. Frankly, he's lucky that he's not already dead. We'll do what we can for him here, but we don't have a doctor with us. There's only so much that stimpacks can fix on their own."

"Well, where's the nearest doctor?" she replied. "Can't we go and bring one back?"

Preston nodded. "That's honestly our best option right now. I'll go."

"I'm coming too, Preston," Myra replied.

He shook his head. "Have you seen yourself? You might not be as torn up as Paladin Danse, but you can barely stand up right now. How much blood have you lost?"

"Not enough to force me to stay behind when Danse's life is in danger," she growled. "Give me a fucking stim and some med-x, and let's go. We don't have time to argue. I'm not sending you out there alone. What if something happens and you don't come back?"

Preston sighed. Of all the times for her to be stubborn..."Fine. Zev, can you keep an eye on Danse?"

The minuteman nodded as he did his best to bandage the Paladin's arm. "Mr. MacCready taught me some basic first aid, sir. I'll do what I can. But please hurry. He's lost a lot of blood."

Myra scowled. "Blood packs. Fuck. I knew I left something useful in my bag!"

"We can't worry about that now, General," soothed Preston. "You did what you had to do. Now, take your chems so we can get on the road." There was a phrase he never thought he'd find himself uttering, but these were desperate times, he supposed. If Myra wouldn't stay behind, he at least wanted her to be comfortable.

As they left the keep, Preston checked in with Davis and Forrester. The crippled man was doing his best to direct Kestrel as she fiddled with one of the generators, trying to get the radio up and running.

"Jake, do you think you two will be able to make this thing work?" Preston asked.

"We'll do our best, Colonel," Forrester replied, his splinted leg propped up on the broadcasting table. "I wish I could get my hands on the wiring myself, but it's better than nothing."

Preston looked over at Kes. "Davis, as soon as you two get things working, I want you to call Ignatius. We never should have let him head up that operation near Lynn Woods."

"Hey," the slight woman replied softly, "you couldn't have known that we needed a doctor on this mission, and we definitely needed him up there. The others listen to him."

"All the same, please get him here as soon as you can. The General and I are going to try and find another solution, but it would really help if we had a dedicated physician here."

Kestrel nodded. "I'll do what I can."

"That's all I ask," Preston replied with a nod. He turned back to Myra only to see her kneeling beside Danse's obliterated power armor, extracting something from his bag.

"Thank God I asked you to carry these, Danse," she muttered, grabbing a handful of small cylinders.

"What are they?" asked Preston curiously.

"Signal grenades to call a Brotherhood vertibird," Myra replied. "A gift from Elder Maxson. Let's see if these actually work. If they do, we can get Danse back to the Prydwen. The Brotherhood has an awesome medic, though he's probably pretty pissed off with me right now," she added sheepishly.

Preston frowned. "Does that have something to do with your injury, General?"

Myra grinned. "Yeah, maybe. I was kind of supposed to be on bed rest for another week, but I talked Danse into smuggling me off the ship." Her smile faded. "Damn it, maybe I should have listened to Cade. Then Danse wouldn't be…" The General sighed as she pulled a pin on the device, dropping the grenade on the ground. She stared at it for a long moment, but nothing happened. "Shit," she hissed. "A dud." She tried another, then another in quick succession. Nothing.

As he tried to figure out what was supposed to happen, Preston noticed that Myra's gloves seemed to be corroding rapidly. "General, quick!" he cried, "Your hands!"

Myra swore under her breath, pulling the cloth from her hands as the Mirelurk Queen's acid saliva ate through them. "Well, that explains why the grenades aren't working," she muttered. "Maxson warned me that they had a lot of delicate components, and acid probably isn't good for any of them. So, back to Plan A. Any idea where there might be a doctor nearby?"

"I heard that Bunker Hill has one," Preston remarked. "If not, there are plenty of traders who pass through there. Surely one of them has a doctor with them."

"That's so far, though!" Myra replied. "It could take days to get there and back. Do you think we'd make it in time?"

"We have to," said Preston simply. "So we will."

Myra thought for a moment, then shook her head with a sigh. "There's a doctor closer to us. I'm not sure he'll be willing to help, but it would save us a few hours."

"Where?" asked Preston. "There's no settlements large enough to have a doctor between here and Bunker Hill."

"He's… well, Preston, I'm not really supposed to…"

The minuteman sighed. "Look, Myra, I know you're with the Railroad. Are we going to see their doctor?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide. "How could you possibly… I've been so careful!"

Preston chuckled. "Oh, General. Do you really think the Railroad's the only group with informants in the Commonwealth? How do you think we've operated without a radio network for this long?"

"So you were spying on me?"

"I could have been, but to be honest, I didn't have to. If you haven't figured it out by now, you're pretty famous. Everyone knows you walked the Freedom Trail. I just happen to know what that actually means. Protecting the people means keeping an eye on every other major player in the Commonwealth, and I've been curious about the Railroad for a long time."

Myra sighed heavily. "Well, I guess there's no point in denying it, then. Yes, we're going to go see the Railroad. If we're lucky, Dr. Carrington will be willing to help. If not, well, I guess we'll just have to risk going all the way to Bunker Hill."

Preston smiled gently at her. "Was that so hard?"

"It was. Agonizingly so."

"Well, General, if you're in agony, maybe you need another stimpack."

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Preston."

* * *

"You want me to do what, exactly?" Dr. Carrington asked, staring daggers at Myra as she leaned on one of the columns in the catacombs, wincing in pain. He peeled back her flannel shirt, revealing a large gash down her left side. The wound had been stitched up, but the sutures had torn sometime during the battle, leaving it gaping open once more.

"Please, doctor," Myra begged. "We don't have any other options. If you don't agree to help us, Danse will probably die."

"So you expect me to waste our limited medical supplies on an enemy of the Railroad, just because he got himself hurt protecting you?" The man muttered, looking at her torn stitches with disdain as he prepared a suturing needle. "Are you insane? No, don't answer that. No sane person would ask me to help the Brotherhood of Steel."

"I'm not asking you to help the Brotherhood, doctor. I'm-ow! Fuck!," she screamed as the needle pierced her raw flesh. "I'm asking you to help someone important to me. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Your foolish sentiment is touching, Whisper," Carrington said, stitching her together meticulously, "but it doesn't change the fact that…"

"Then what about the fucking Hippocratic Oath?" Myra bellowed in agony and rage. "Isn't that still a thing? You're a doctor. It's your job to help people who need you, no matter who they are. Look, I know the Railroad and the Brotherhood are at odds. But please, look past that and think about what I'm asking you. I don't care how you feel about the Brotherhood. A good, kind, brave man is dying, and you have the ability to save him."

Carrington shook his head. "I've read Deacon's reports on your friend. He's killed so many synths...he's not the good person you seem to think he is."

"And I'm telling you he's not the horrible person you think he is!" Myra hissed. "Listen to me, Carrington. If you don't come with me and do everything in your power to help Danse, I'm leaving. I will walk right out that door, and I will never come back. If the Railroad is willing to let him die, then it sure as hell isn't an organization I want to be a part of."

Carrington snorted. "How naive can you really be? You know he'd turn on you in a heartbeat if he knew you worked for us."

Myra shook her head. "No. I don't believe he would. That's why I have to save him."

The doctor sighed, his eyes softening slightly. "I can't believe I'm letting you talk me into this. Fine. I'll come with you. But if this Paladin of yours ever tries to bring harm to our organization, I'm going to make you be the one to explain to Dez why I helped keep a member of the Brotherhood alive."

"Thank you, Carrington."

The doctor sighed, tying off the suture and helping her lower her shirt. "Please don't. I'm not doing you any favors here, Whisper. Trust me, the merciful thing for me to do would be to let him die and save you the sting of betrayal later."

Preston watched in surprise as the doctor packed up a small field kit. It shouldn't have shocked him that Myra was able to convince Carrington to help her. After all, the General was extremely persuasive when she wanted to be. There was something about her that just inspired people's confidence, whether she'd earned it or not. It had certainly been that way for Preston.

But there was something different this time. He'd seen her talk down raiders, watched her recruit settlers to follow her, witnessed her win the loyalties of a diverse group of people. But he had never seen her argue as passionately for anyone or anything before.

As Preston, Myra, and Carrington started the journey back to the Castle, Preston's curiosity got the better of him. He matched pace with the General, offering her his arm. Myra accepted it graciously, smiling up at him as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"Just like old times, huh?" she asked. "One of these days, you'll get tired of helping me walk, Preston."

"Only if you ever get tired of getting yourself hurt," he replied. "Someone's got to be there to keep you on your feet. Might as well be me."

They walked on in silence for a moment as Preston tried to find the right words. Myra didn't seem to mind, humming gently to herself as she leaned against his torso, his arm coiled around her like a brace. She was cool to the touch, though whether it was from all the blood loss or merely from exposure to the cold winter air Preston couldn't be certain.

"Hey, General?" he asked finally.

"What is it, Preston?" she replied, her anxious eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"I know it's none of my business, but I'm just curious. Is there something going on between you and Paladin Danse?"

Myra stopped walking for a second, pulling away from his protective embrace. Her piercing green eyes flashed with curiosity behind her glasses as she stared at him. "That definitely isn't your business. Why do you want to know?"

"Like I said," he replied, "I'm just curious. You've done a lot of good for a lot of people since I've known you, but I've never seen you act like this before. I suppose I just wanted to know why."

The General sighed, continuing her hike. "Is it really that strange that I'd do everything I could to help one of my allies? You know I'd do the same for you if you'd been the one injured, right?"

Preston thought for a moment as he walked beside her, choosing his next words carefully. "I know you probably believe that. And please don't take this the wrong way. But Myra, when I need you, you send Mac. When Danse needs you...well, you walk halfway across the Commonwealth and bully your friends."

Myra snorted. "Geez, Preston. To be fair, you weren't on death's door when I sent Mac to help you."

"I could have been, though. How would you have known?" The minuteman sighed, shaking his head. "That's not the point. I guess what I'm trying to say is that things are different with you where Danse is concerned. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, just that you're really important to me and I don't want to see you get hurt."

"That's sweet, Preston. But seriously, there's no reason to be worried. Danse is...well, he's my friend, I suppose. He's always been there for me, supporting me, keeping me sane. Hell, I owe him my life a few times over now."

"I'm your friend too, Myra. So trust me when I say this. No matter what you've done to convince yourself, Danse is not just your friend."

Myra scowled. "Why are you acting like this? I figured you'd be happy I cared about anyone after what I've been through."

Preston nodded, trying to ignore the gnawing in his gut. Was it really possible that Myra didn't know how he felt about her? He had to find out for sure, before they returned to the Castle. "General, I...there's something you should probably know. I know the circumstances aren't great, but I figured I should tell you. I'm...interested in you. You know, romantically. So, yeah, I'll admit it bugs me a little to see you so worked up over another man, even if you insist you're just friends."

Myra stopped walking again, her eyes wide as she stared back at him. "Are you...are you serious, Preston?"

He nodded. "I honestly thought you knew."

"So you're not...you know...of the other persuasion?"

Preston stared at her. "Huh?"

"You know...a confirmed bachelor? A man's man, so to speak?"

He froze. "You thought I was gay? No. Not at all! What gave you that impression?"

She blushed beet red. "I...oh, God, I'm sorry. I thought you and MacCready were -"

The Colonel sputtered. "What? You were trying to set us up? Is that why...oh, damn, Myra. No, no, we're just friends. Really."

"And...and you're actually...interested in me?" she replied, her emerald eyes wide. "Holy shit. I really misread that."

"I'll say," he muttered. "I guess it's a good thing I told you how I felt, huh? I realize that given our working relationship -"

The General sighed, patting his shoulder affectionately. "Look, Preston. I'm incredibly flattered. You're a really great guy, and I'm sure there's someone out there in this crazy world who's perfect for you. Not MacCready, I guess, since you like women and all. But I also don't think that's me, at least not right now."

"Because there's someone else," Preston added.

"Yes," Myra replied. "Well, no. I…" She thought for a moment, gently playing with the wedding ring she wore around her neck. "I know it happened a decade ago, but to me, my husband's death is still fresh. I'm not…I'm not looking for a romantic relationship right now, not with anyone. I just want to get my son back, and then maybe figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life."

Preston nodded. "I had a feeling you'd say something like that. That's why I didn't bring it up before."

"I'm really sorry, Preston," Myra added.

"I know," he sighed. "Don't worry about it. Just, if you ever do find yourself ready to move on, I mean…"

"Preston," Myra interjected. "No. Don't you dare wait for me. I don't want that for you, or anyone I care about. Look, I'm a mess. I'm going to be a mess for a long time. It would break my heart if I knew you were putting your life on hold for me to get my shit together. I want you to find happiness for yourself, ok? If you really care for me, that's what will make me the happiest. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," he replied sullenly. "I understand. Thanks for being honest with me, Myra."

"Of course, Preston. Like I said, you really do deserve all the happiness in the world. I really hope you find it."

Preston smiled sadly at his General. "You too, Myra. In the meantime, I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

Myra pulled him into a tight hug. "Thanks, Preston. You really are one hell of a friend."

Preston hugged her back, doing his best to ignore the aching in his chest. Part of him had always known that this was how things would work out, but all the same, he had hoped...No. He wasn't going to let this rejection change their relationship. They still needed each other. They were still friends. And if all he could give her was his friendship and his support, then that was exactly what he would do.

They walked on in silence, Myra's eyes ever-trained on the horizon, worry drawing her mouth into a tight line as she rubbed her hand over the stock of her laser rifle, tracing the letters that were etched on it over and over with anxious fingers. Preston hiked beside her, keeping an eye out for danger or anything that might slow them down. He hoped with all his might that they'd make it back to the Castle in time.


	3. The Clean Slate

**3\. The Clean Slate**

_MacCready makes his way to the Castle to help the Minutemen, only to find the battle over and Danse close to death._

* * *

MacCready grimaced as he leaned against the wall of a ruined concrete building, easing his boot off carefully. Another blister. Great. Just what he'd been hoping for. He'd have thought that after spending most of his life on his feet, they'd have become resistant to blisters by now, but he'd had no such luck.

He shook his boot out angrily, watching a small cascade of sand and grit fall out onto the floor. Mac swore he'd checked his boots before starting out this morning, but the beaten-up leather shoes were a magnet for dirt and small stones.

"And of course, now my sock has a hole," he muttered. "Perfect." It was his last pair. He'd only been wearing them for a week. The mercenary sighed, easing himself onto the floor. He pulled his knife from his pack, as well as a length of relatively clean fabric and a half-full bottle of vodka. Carefully, he peeled off the worn sock, recoiling at the sight of his swollen foot. The blister, as he'd feared, was a big one. He'd have to lance it if he had any hope of reaching the Castle today.

Preston's note had caught him in the middle of a job down near Natick, which he'd wrapped up as quickly as he could. Still, it was a hell of a walk, in the best of conditions. And after three days in his sniper nest, just waiting for a raider boss to show so he could put them down, Mac's legs weren't quite up to the hike.

He pulled the note from his duster pocket, re-reading it again. It was crazy that Preston expected him to come, wasn't it? After all, Myra and MacCready were no longer working together. That meant he wasn't the Colonel's to command any more. So why had Preston sent for him? And, perhaps more curious, why had MacCready decided to come?

The mercenary took a swig from the vodka before pouring some of the alcohol over his knife. He hated this part. Mac gritted his teeth before slicing the blister open, gasping in pain as cloudy fluid drained from the injury. It hadn't gotten too bad, thankfully. It was only slightly infected. Most of the fluid was colorless, and it didn't smell nearly as bad as he'd expected. All the same, he needed to disinfect the area. MacCready poured more vodka into the wound, cursing under his breath as the alcohol burned his wounded flesh. He let the injury air out for a moment before wrapping his whole foot in fabric. It wasn't pretty, but he'd be able to walk, so it'd have to do.

Maybe once he arrived at the Castle, he could receive proper medical care. The Minutemen had recently acquired a doctor, hadn't they? What was his name? MacCready seemed to remember that it was something strange, like Gnashes.

Mac eased his boot back on before standing up, careful not to put too much weight on his foot right away. Just because he could walk on it didn't mean that the trip was going to be pleasant. The Mercenary winced as he took a few tentative steps. Not bad. Not good, either. He limped out of the building, heading towards the rising sun. If he paced himself, he'd probably reach the old fort by noon.

* * *

When MacCready arrived at the Castle, the first thing he noticed was the smell. He scrunched up his nose as he glanced about the courtyard. One or two mirelurks smelled bad enough. But a small army of the crustacean bastards? The place reeked of old fish, rotten seaweed, and brine, as though the sea itself had vomited upon the stronghold. MacCready's eyes were drawn to the largest carcass, a mirelurk queen twice the size of a bus, its mangled body burned and contorted, legs reaching for the sky.

"Hold it," growled a voice from behind him. He heard the telltale click of a pistol being cocked as the speaker approached. "What's your business here?"

"My name's MacCready," he replied curtly, putting his hands up. "Preston's expecting me. I came to help."

The person behind him chuckled. "You're running a bit late, aren't ya? Turn around."

MacCready complied, and his eyes widened as he took in the sight of his interrogator. She was a small woman, a little shorter than he was, her right arm bandaged tightly. The woman returned her pistol to its holster, her grey eyes apologetic. "Yeah, you look like the guy the Colonel told us to look out for," she continued. "Sorry for pulling a gun on you. We're a little understaffed at the moment. The General and Garvey left yesterday, and we have no idea when they'll be back."

"They left?" MacCready asked, confused. "Why? Did something happen?"

The woman sighed. "The General's pet Paladin got himself torn up during the fight. They went to go find a doctor. Zev did his best, but the damn kid ain't no substitute for a doctor."

"Danse is injured?" MacCready asked, his eyes wide. "How? Wasn't he in his armor?"

"Yeah, but he got mauled pretty bad. I've never seen anything like it. That armor did almost nothing against the queen. The General's just lucky Danse got the worst of it."

"Was anyone else hurt?"

"My arm got torn up a bit, but it's mending. Jake's got a broken leg and some cuts, but he'll be ok. Dogmeat took a hell of a thrashing, but he'll live too. Honestly, we did ok, considering there were just the six of us. The General kicked some pretty serious ass, I have to admit."

MacCready looked around the fort again, taking in the carnage. "I'll say. Well done, uh…"

"Kestrel," the woman replied, sticking out her left hand.

"Hang on. You're Kestrel?" he asked, surprised. "You're the one who's been leading those raiders?"

She sighed. "We're not raiders. At least not now. As long as the Colonel honors our agreement, we're minutemen, just like everyone else."

MacCready frowned. He had the feeling that there was more to the woman's story than she was letting on. But right now, that wasn't important. Making sure the wounded were ok was.

"What happened to that doctor Preston was bragging about?" he asked. "Zev's not bad with a stimpack, but he shouldn't be doing anything more than that."

Kestrel shrugged. "This wasn't our only mission. Ignatius took a few of my men north to clear out a deathclaw nest that was making some farmers nervous. Guess the Colonel thought deathclaws were more likely to cause injury."

Mac smiled slightly. "I guess no one else believed that sea monster garbage either, huh?"

"Hell," Kes replied, gesturing to the gargantuan corpse, "I've seen all sorts of crazy shit in my time, but even I wasn't expecting to run into something like that. I mean, ghouls in space is one thing. Actual giant monsters are another."

MacCready made a mental note to ask her more about the space ghouls. Unfortunately, now wasn't really the time. "Can you take me to the clinic?" he asked. "I'm not a doctor either, but I know a bit more than Zev does. I might be able to help."

Kestrel nodded, leading the mercenary into the keep. The Minutemen had converted one of the cleaner rooms into a small clinic, stacking medical supplies and chems in one corner of the space. Several makeshift cots had been hastily assembled and placed along one wall. Most of them were empty, save the one that housed the unconscious body of Paladin Danse.

Mac almost didn't recognize the muscular soldier without his power armor. Rather than the grumpy, larger-than-life figure he was used to, this Danse seemed...surprisingly human. He was still quite a tall man, his heels hanging over the edge of the cot. But tucked under gauze and threadbare blankets, he seemed smaller somehow, vulnerable.

Zev hovered over the Paladin's bedside, his eyes weary. MacCready smiled at the sight. The young man had come a long way from the frightened, battered boy the mercenary had met. He was still a nervous wreck, of course, but it did Mac's heart good to see him working through that.

"How is he, Zev?" MacCready asked.

Zev gasped in shock as he looked up, his eyes meeting Mac's. "Whoa! Hey, I didn't hear you come in!"

"Sorry," the mercenary replied. "I forget how stealthy I am sometimes."

"It's ok. I was obviously not paying attention," the younger man said sheepishly. "I'm working on it, but…" he trailed off as Danse stirred in his sleep, groaning pitifully as his eyes twitched behind his closed eyelids. Zev frowned, holding a hand to the Paladin's forehead. "I think his fever's getting worse."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" MacCready asked.

Zev shook his head. "I've patched him up as well as I can. Without an actual doctor, I'm afraid that there's not much we can do. You're welcome to check for yourself, though, Mr. MacCready."

Mac sighed. "Zev. We've been over this. I'm only two years older than you. You can call me Mac, or RJ. It's...kinda creepy that you keep treating me like some kind of geezer."

"Oh! Sorry!" Zev blushed slightly. "I'm sorry Mr...um, RJ. I mean it as a sign of respect. Since, you're like, a superior officer and all. Well, I know you don't have a rank or anything. I just..."

The mercenary rolled his eyes. "Geez, Zev. You're going to give yourself an ulcer. It's fine. I'm not a Minuteman. I'm just a guy who got paid to be here. We're equals, ok? So it's RJ."

"Wait," Kestrel asked, her grey eyes wide. "You're getting paid? Fucking Colonel Garvey ripping me off again… I knew I couldn't trust that guy."

MacCready sighed. "It's a figure of speech, Kestrel. I'm a gun for hire." He thought for a moment. "I mean, I guess technically I'm doing this one for free too, since I gave Myra my fee back."

"You what?" Kes replied angrily. "Is everyone in the Commonwealth stupid, or just the people I've met? What, she bat her pretty little eyes at you and you just couldn't say no?"

"No...I...oh, shut up!" Mac replied, blushing. "It's not like that."

Kestrel rolled her eyes. "Right...ok, buddy. If that's your line, that's your line. I'm just saying, I know girls like our General. Hell, I was one, back in the day. You give her a few caps, she'll talk you into buying her a fancy new gun to go with 'em. Next thing you know, you're lying in the desert with no pants on, radscorpions eyeing your junk."

"That's...oddly specific," MacCready replied.

"What's a desert?" Zev asked.

Kestrel smirked. "Don't worry about it. I'm just saying, watch yourself, MacCready. You seem like a decent sort of guy, and I'd hate to see you get burned. That woman's trouble. I can smell it radiating off of her like cheap perfume from a hooker."

"Okay…well, thanks, I guess," Mac replied as the small blonde left the room. "Is she really a minuteman?" he asked Zev. "She seems a little...off."

"Well, she's got a uniform, so I guess so," the young man replied. "The Colonel says we've gotta be patient with her. Apparently she's got some brain issues or something. Kinda like Dov, I think, but a little more...strange, I guess? She told me she got shot in the head a couple times, but that can't be true, can it? No one survives that."

"Not without becoming a drooling mess," MacCready agreed. "Well, I guess we can't afford to be too picky, these days. Hell, if she can shoot, and isn't trying to shoot us, she's fine with me." He turned back to the Paladin's cot. "Now, tell me exactly how you've been treating Paladin Danse, so I don't accidentally make things worse."

Zev nodded, handing MacCready a battered clipboard. "I've been writing everything down, just so I don't forget and accidentally give him too much medication. We don't have a lot of supplies left, so we're having to make due. I hope Jake and Kes get the radio working soon, so we can request aid from one of the settlements."

"That was a good plan, pal," MacCready said, looking over Zev's notes. "Listen, you look like crap. Go get some rest. I'll look after him for a while."

"Thanks, Mr. -oh! I mean, RJ," Zev replied, blushing. "Sorry."

Mac shook his head. "Just get out of here, Zev."

"Ok! Yeah. Sorry!" the younger man said as he left the room.

MacCready sighed. "What are we gonna do with you, Zev? You're more hopeless than freaking Squirrel was, and twice as skittish."

The mercenary took the younger man's place next to Danse's bedside, placing a hand gently on the Paladin's forehead. The man's skin was moist and hot to the touch, his cheeks flushed even as the rest of his skin seemed uncharacteristically pallid. Zev was right. Danse had one hell of a fever. Mac pulled a can of purified water from his pack, soaking his handkerchief in it before applying the damp cloth to Danse's forehead. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

Danse muttered unintelligibly, his wavy black hair flopping into his face as he turned his head away from the cool cloth. MacCready snorted slightly as he placed the cloth back on Danse's head, brushing his hair out of the way once more.

"Let's see..." the mercenary mused as he checked over the older man's bandages. Zev had actually done a fairly competent job. At least all the wounded bits were covered without any gaps. That was more than a lot of people seemed to be able to manage.

As Mac continued to look over Danse's injuries, his bony fingers ghosted over a scar on the Paladin's upper arm, just above the bandages. It had faded with time, but the telltale jagged mark left by a ripper remained, a memory of a debt still owed. "So it was you the whole time," MacCready mused. "Who would have thought after all these years that I'd finally have a chance to pay you back?"

His mind returned to the Capital Wasteland, to those confusing, chaotic days when he'd had no place to call home, had wandered the wastes with only his gun to keep him fed. He'd hoped to find Heather, to join her cause, only to find that she'd vanished. Not even the Brotherhood knew where she'd gone. That little brat Arthur had asked him to track her down, had offered to pay him for his trouble. MacCready had agreed to help, but the journey had almost cost him his life. If it hadn't been for the helmeted Brotherhood soldier who'd protected him...

"We never even found her on that trip, did we? Funny how life works, isn't it Danse?" MacCready asked softly, sitting next to the Paladin's bedside. "I'll bet you don't even remember." He sighed. It was just as well. He'd hate to give the Paladin a reason to gloat.

The mercenary settled into a chair by the cot, watching over Danse as the Paladin continued to mutter in his sleep. Whatever the man was dreaming about, it was intense. Fever dreams often were. MacCready checked his bandages every few hours, changing them with fresh cloth and antiseptic when they looked particularly disgusting. Other than that, there wasn't a whole lot he could really do for the Paladin.

Night fell over the Castle, and still there was no word from Myra or Preston. Danse's fever refused to break, in spite of Mac and Zev's best efforts. If anything, it seemed to be getting worse.

Finally too exhausted to stand, MacCready had gone to bed in the barracks down the hall from the clinic, hoping to catch a few hours of rest. He wasn't sure how much sleep he'd actually gotten when the entire fort was woken by the Paladin's screams of agony. MacCready leapt from his bed, running to the infirmary with Zev and Kes hot on his heels.

Danse writhed on the bed, furiously tearing at the bandages that covered his chest. Blood and lymph seeped through the pale cloth, creating an abstract painting of misery across the Paladin's body.

"We're going to have to tie him down," barked MacCready, pulling an assortment of rope from his pack. "Or he's going to seriously hurt himself."

Zev and Kestrel did what they could to hold Danse's arms down, but the soldier was incredibly strong and even more determined. He bellowed incoherently as he fought back against the two minutemen, breaking free from Zev's grasp with a swing that sent the man flying.

"I hate to do this, Paladin," warned the battered minuteman, readying a large dose of Med-x and tossing it to Kes, who injected the chem directly into Danse's right shoulder. The Paladin roared in anguish and continued to fight until the drug slowly overwhelmed his system, his arms falling to his sides. MacCready quickly took advantage of the situation and bound Danse to the bed, hoping the ropes would hold through the night.

"I'll watch him," the mercenary said, doing his best to calm his nerves. "You two should try to get Myra on the radio again. She needs to hurry. I think his blood's poisoned. I've seen this before, and we definitely don't have what we need to fix it."

* * *

"Hey, Mac. Wake up!" called a familiar feminine voice. Hands shook him gently, and he muttered in protest, swatting sleepily at the contact.

"Go away, Lucy…" he murmured groggily. "...not time to wake up yet."

"Who's Lucy?" asked the voice. "Come on. You can't stay here."

MacCready groaned, opening his eyes to slits. He wasn't in bed, that much was clear. Had he fallen asleep in the clinic? As his vision cleared, he saw Myra leaning over him, fear in her lovely green eyes.

"Myra?" he asked, his mind connecting the dots. "You're back! Does that mean you found a doctor?"

"It was less found and more coerced," fumed Carrington quietly as he frowned down at Danse. "Why is the patient restrained, if I may ask?"

"He was thrashing around, reopening his wounds," MacCready replied. "We had to tie him up so he wouldn't hurt himself. I'm pretty sure it's blood poisoning."

Myra's eyes widened, brimming with tears. "Oh, Danse…" she murmured.

Carrington sighed. "I wouldn't be surprised, with the shoddy medical care you've provided. Next time, stick to shooting people, MacCready. At least that way you'll kill them quickly."

MacCready stuck his tongue out at the doctor. "Well, now that you're here, I'll let you give it a shot," he muttered, handing the doctor Danse's chart. "Here's what we've tried so far. Good luck."

Carrington rolled his eyes. "Thankfully for your friend here, I don't rely on luck. Whisper, get him out of here. I don't need any distractions. This...this could take a while."

Myra nodded. She reached down and grabbed Danse's hand, squeezing it gently. "You'd better make it, Danse," she whispered. "Or so help me, I'll find a way to bring you back so I can kill you myself." Hot tears fell from her eyes as she fled the room. MacCready followed after, concerned.

Myra leaned against the wall of the keep, sinking to the floor with a heavy sob. MacCready wrapped an arm around her, tucking her into his side as he sat beside her. It was instinct, a gesture old and familiar to him.

"Hey," he soothed. "It'll be ok. Don't...don't cry. We'll do everything we can."

Myra clung to him, burying her face in his chest. Within moments, his shirt was soaked, but he didn't care. Her body shuddered with each whimpering sob, her fingers balled in the fabric of his duster. MacCready rubbed her back gently, just as he had done so many times to comfort the people who depended on him.

"It's all m-my fault!" Myra cried, her voice muffled against his torso. "I sh-shouldn't have brought him here. I shouldn't have...I can't…."

"Hey. Myra, come on," Mac said, holding her closely. "I'm sure he would have come with you even if you told him not to. Remember how pissed he was when he rescued us?"

She nodded. "Y-yeah," she managed. "That's true. But that was m-my fault too."

The mercenary sighed, continuing to gently rub her back. "Maybe that's true. Or maybe it was my fault. Either way, it's the past. We can't take it back. And no matter what happens now, boss, I've got your back. You know that, right?"

Myra pulled away from him slightly, her bloodshot eyes meeting his. "Thanks, Mac. But I'm not your boss any more."

"Well, then why the heck am I here?" MacCready replied with a smirk. "I should be out making caps, not babysitting your weepy butt."

Myra smacked his arm gently, a small smile on her tear-stained face. "You're a real jerk, you know that?"

"Don't act like you don't enjoy it," he snarked, brushing her short white hair out of her face.

"I wouldn't go that far," she replied, wiping her eyes. Myra detangled herself from his arms, standing with a shaky sigh. "I guess I should check in on the others, see how they're holding up."

MacCready shook his head. "No. You need to rest. I heard about what happened during the fight. You're injured too. Honestly, I'm amazed Preston even let you go with him."

"I'm fine," Myra moaned. "A few more hours on my feet...won't…" she paled, her legs giving out. MacCready yelped as she collapsed on top of him, out cold.

"For crying out loud!" he fumed, pushing her off him. He stood, lifting her unconscious body over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He thought about taking her back to the infirmary, but with Carrington hard at work, he didn't want to risk it. Instead, he carried Myra to the barracks, depositing her on one of the nicer beds. He pulled a blanket from one of the footlockers, tucking her in carefully. "You're lucky you're so pretty," he muttered. "There's no caps in the world worth dealing with you."

MacCready slipped out of the room quietly, careful not to wake the General. At least she was lying down. That was a start. He wandered the keep for a while, eventually following his rumbling stomach to the kitchen.

Preston stood over the stove, stirring the pungent contents of a large pot. He frowned, adding a little more razorgrain flour to the creamy concoction.

"Mirelurk chowder?" MacCready asked.

Preston's shoulders stiffened at the sound of his voice. "If I can get it to the right consistency, yeah," he replied, not turning around. "Damn thing's giving me a lot of trouble."

"Can I help?" the mercenary asked, joining the Colonel at the stove. He took the spoon from Preston's hand, their fingers touching slightly. Preston coughed, looking away awkwardly.

"It's all yours, Mac," he mumbled.

MacCready frowned, puzzled. What the hell was wrong with Preston? The man seemed nervous. Still, it wasn't really MacCready's business, and he wasn't the type to pry. "Looks like you added too much flour," he said. "You've got to thin it out, or it's gonna be like fish-flavored concrete. Hand me some brahmin milk, will ya?"

"Sure," replied Preston, opening the fridge and pulling out an ice cold bottle. He set the container on the table next to the stove. MacCready rolled his eyes, opening the bottle and pouring a good amount of it into the chowder. He stirred it in slowly, keeping an eye on the consistency of the soup.

"What's in this besides mirelurk?" he asked. "Carrots? Corn?"

"Yeah." Preston said dismissively. "So, Mac, weird question."

"Ok?"

"You're not…" the Colonel stammered, "I mean, it's ok if you are, but…"

"Just spit it out, Preston," MacCready sighed.

Preston sighed. "Are you...interested in men? You know, in a romantic way?"

"Um...no…not usually," MacCready replied, blushing slightly. "Why, you coming on to me, Garvey?"

"No, no!" Preston said, shaking his head. "Nothing like that. Just...did you know that the General was trying to set us up?"

MacCready turned to look at the minuteman, his eyes wide in shock. "What? Are you fuc… I mean, are you serious? That's why she told me to tell you you have a great butt?"

Preston paled. "She...what?"

MacCready nodded smirking. "Oh, yeah. When she sent me to see you. Boy, am I glad I left that part out."

"I just can't believe she thought…" Preston replied. "I mean, you're not a bad-looking guy, just…"

"Ugh. Stop. I get it." MacCready snorted, trying to hold back his laughter and failing. "Oh, man! So does she know you're sweet on her, or does she still think…hah! I'm so sorry."

"Well, at least you're taking this well," Preston muttered. "And how did you know how I feel about her?"

The mercenary shrugged. "I don't think there's anyone in the Minutemen who doesn't know about your little crush. Well, anyone except Myra, apparently. You're not exactly subtle. I mean, you built her a whole art studio. Who does that?"

"She knows now," Preston said with a heavy sigh. "I told her. Not that it's any of your business, but she said she's not interested."

"I'm sorry, Preston," MacCready managed, choking back his laughter out of respect for his...friend? Were they friends? "That really sucks."

"Yeah." Preston walked back to the pot on the stove, ladling out a portion of pale, pungent chowder. "Here. Try this and tell me if it needs anything."

MacCready accepted the offered bowl, scooping a large spoonful into his mouth. He grimaced as the hot soup scalded his mouth. "It's hot!" he hissed.

"Are you five?" Preston replied with a look of disdain. "Blow on it first, you idiot."

"No time. Too hungry." MacCready shoveled more of the chowder into his mouth greedily. It wasn't particularly well-seasoned, but it was filling, and right now that was his main concern. He polished off the bowl, setting it on the table.

Preston stared at him. "So...was it good?"

"Needs salt," Mac replied. "And maybe some fresh herbs, but we're not gonna get those until we get a garden going. Other than that, well...it's mirelurk."

"Not a fan?" the Colonel asked.

"So not a fan," MacCready replied. "I hate their beady little eyes and their…" He wiggled his fingers. "Their creepy legs. They're like bugs, but even more gross."

"Well, I hate to break it to you," Preston mused, "but we're all gonna be eating mirelurk until the radio's fixed. No one knows it's safe to send provisioners here. Besides, it'd be a waste not to eat all that meat."

MacCready groaned. "This is revenge, isn't it? For the mole rats."

Preston chuckled. "The thought had occurred to me. But it's also about setting an example. We shouldn't waste food like that when there are people starving in the Commonwealth who would literally kill for what we have."

"Then invite them over," MacCready muttered. "Leave me out of it."

"Your loss," the Colonel replied. "Why don't you get started on that garden of yours, then?"

"Maybe I will," the mercenary shot back. "Then you'll see."

* * *

Days flew by as life in the Castle fell into a sort of routine. Mornings were spent clearing debris and salting down what was left of the mirelurk horde to preserve what wouldn't fit in the one working fridge. MacCready spent his afternoons in his garden, a small patch of land Zev helped him clear just beyond the Castle walls. It would take a while before they were able to plant anything, but at least the soil was tilled and fertilized, ready for spring planting.

When he wasn't in the garden, Mac was checking up on Myra and Danse. After she'd passed out, the General was kept off duty, in spite of her protests. She spent most of her time in the clinic while her wounds healed, watching over the still-slumbering Paladin. Danse's fever had broken, but Carrington had instructed that he be kept sedated until his injuries healed, for his own comfort. The acid burns that covered his torso were still raw, and were probably extraordinarily painful.

It was one such visit that brought Mac to the clinic on this particular day, carrying an old cafeteria tray loaded with food. MacCready wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but the tone of Myra's voice caught his attention, and he found himself hanging on her every word as he waited in the doorway.

Myra sat in a worn chair beside the Paladin's bed, clasping one of his large, strong hands in hers. Her hands were dwarfed by his, small and pale like those of a child. Her bright emerald eyes searched his slumbering face, her voice trembling as she spoke to him. "Danse," she said softly, reverently, "Please, I need you to be ok. You can't leave me alone like this. You promised you'd fight by my side until we found Shaun. How am I supposed to do any of this without you?"

MacCready approached slowly. Myra's attention completely focused on his face as she gently brushed his dark hair off his forehead with one hand. The gesture was unexpectedly tender and familiar, and MacCready could feel guilt rising in his gut for spying on such a private moment. He cleared his throat so as not to startle her. Myra pulled her hand back to her side, turning to look at him with a guilty expression in her eyes.

"Hey, Mac. What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I...I wanted to check on you, boss, see how you were holding up. Have you eaten anything today?"

She shook her head, eyeing the tray as MacCready placed it on the table next to her. "I don't think so. But that's ok. I can eat later."

"Myra. You've been in here for hours again. Preston told me he tried to get you to rest, and you yelled at him. Can you at least eat something so you don't pass out?"

"I…" she started, her voice shaking as she met his gaze. "What if he doesn't get better, Mac? Dr. Carrington said that all we can do now is keep him comfortable, but what if it's not enough?"

"Hey," he soothed, snagging a blanket from the foot of the single bed Danse occupied and spreading it over Myra, "He's going to be fine. You know the guy better than I do, and even I know how stubborn he is. Do you really think he's going to give up on you now?"

She gave him a sad smile. "You're right, Mac. But willpower might not be enough this time. Carrington said that the shock to his system from all the pain might be too much for his body to handle. Back before the War, we had facilities that could handle this, put him in a medically-induced coma until they were able to fix the damage. But now…Is drugging him to hell really..." Myra shuddered, her voice trailing off as her eyes fixed on the Paladin's face again.

MacCready watched her for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say. He wasn't particularly good with words, not when it really mattered. He'd always been the punch first and use diplomacy second kind of guy. But he knew that lost look on Myra's face all too well, and he'd give anything to spare her the worry and pain that he knew rested in her heart.

"Try to eat, ok?" he managed after a long moment, tucking the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Preston made his mirelurk chowder again, so you should really give it a try while it's still warm. Stuff's like glue when it gets cold. And, hey, I might not be the best company, but I'll be around if you need me. Just ask."

Myra nodded slightly, and he left the room, looking back at her still form as she continued staring at Danse's body, willing him to recover.

As MacCready walked back to the kitchen, Preston caught his attention, the minuteman's deep, dark eyes searching his for news.

"Is Myra holding up ok? Did you manage to get her to eat?"

MacCready shook his head. "It's really hard to say, Preston. I mean, I've never seen her like this before."

"Me neither. I just wish there was more we could do."

* * *

Almost a week after the liberation of the Castle, Danse finally stirred. MacCready was on observation duty when it happened, chatting with Kestrel about her space ghouls.

"So you really helped them get those old rockets going?" he asked in amazement. "And they worked?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Honestly, I didn't do much. It was mostly Chris, that guy who thought he was a ghoul."

"So is everyone from out west crazy, or just the ones I've heard about?" MacCready teased.

"Hey! I'm not crazy," Kes shot back. "I'm just slightly brain-damaged."

"Right. Because you got shot in the head. Twice."

"I can't believe you don't believe me!" she hissed. "I've shown you the scars!"

"Hey, I'm not the one who helped ghouls go to space," Mac replied. "I'm just saying, that doesn't seem like something a sane person does."

"Aff...irmative," moaned Danse from behind them.

MacCready rushed to the Paladin's side. "Holy crap, I think he's coming to!"

The Paladin stared up at him, his dark eyes confused. "You...Is Myra…"

"She's fine, Danse," MacCready said, nodding to Kes to go find the General. "We sent her to go get some sleep. She's barely left your side this whole time."

The Paladin smiled groggily. "Outstanding...I'm relieved that she's...all right. Let's go see her." He tried to sit up, groaning in discomfort as his body sluggishly responded.

MacCready gently pushed him back down on the bed. "Easy, Danse. You're on a pretty crazy amount of chems right now. I wouldn't recommend trying to stand up. From what I hear, it was hard enough to keep all your guts in when they brought you in here. Who knows what could happen if you get up now?"

"But...I feel fine," the Paladin slurred, still trying to stand. "I need to see Myra...make sure she's safe."

"I promise she's safe. She's probably already on her way here to see you."

Danse grinned, smacking MacCready lightly on the cheek. "Thank you...little weasel man. You're my best friend."

MacCready grimaced. "Whoa. Ok, Danse. Easy. It's just the drugs talking."

Myra tore into the room, her eyes frantic. "Danse?" she cried.

"Myra!" he replied, beaming at her. "Brandis was right you...do look like an angel. So...pretty…"

She blushed, taking his hand in hers. "Damn, sir. How many drugs did Carrington give you?"

Danse thought for a moment. "Feels like...all of them?"

Myra turned to MacCready. "How long has he been awake?"

"Just a couple minutes. We got you as soon as he came to. Carrington said the drugs should wear off soon, now that he's been on a lower dosage the past couple days."

Myra cocked an eyebrow at him. "This is a lower dosage? Damn."

"Stop...stop talking about me like I'm not here," muttered Danse. "I'm...I'm right here."

Myra snorted, patting his hand. "Sorry, Danse. It's good to see you awake, that's all. I've been worried sick. You almost died. Like, a bunch of times."

"Well, I'm not dead," the Paladin replied. "I don't think, at least." He frowned up at MacCready. "Am I dead?"

"Yup," Mac replied with a slight chuckle. "You're dead all right. I'm actually the devil, here for your soul!"

"No!" Danse replied, clutching at Myra's hand. "Don't let him take me, Myra!"

Myra glared at Mac. "Are you happy now? It's not fair to take advantage of the poor man when he's high as balls."

"But when else will I get the opportunity?" Mac asked, smirking.

"Go!" Myra commanded with a chuckle. "Find Carrington or something. He'll probably want to know that Danse is awake."

MacCready sighed. "Fine. But I'm not gonna pretend to be happy about it." He left the room, frowning slightly as a nagging sensation in his gut urged him to stay, to not leave Myra and Danse on their own.

It took MacCready the better part of an hour to track down Carrington. When he finally found him, the misanthropic doctor was sitting alone in the kitchen, frowning down at his dinner. MacCready pulled up a chair across from him, flopping into it with a sigh.

"I presume you're bothering me for a good reason?" muttered Carrington.

"Danse is awake," the mercenary replied. "Thought you might like to know."

Carrington nodded. "I was hoping he'd come around soon. Good. That means I won't have to stay in this nasty old building any longer."

"Hey, I've seen where you live. This place is way better! It's even above-ground. I'm sure once we get the rest of it cleaned up, it'll even be nice."

The doctor sighed. "I highly doubt it. And even if that's the case, it's still not a very good location. Too far from everything."

MacCready grinned. "There really is no pleasing you, is there, doctor?"

"I suppose I just have high standards," the older man replied, dropping his spoon into the viscous soup with a frown. "Well, let's get this check-up over with, so I can get back to my own problems. I've already been gone too long."

The nagging feeling reasserted itself, and Mac did his best to ignore it. "Sounds good. I'm sure Deacon misses you."

"I have no doubt," Carrington replied, standing up from the table. Together, they walked back down the hall of the keep, towards the clinic. They could hear shouting well before they reached the door, and MacCready grimaced.

"What do you mean it's been scrapped?" Danse growled.

"I meant what I said, Danse," Myra replied. "We were able to salvage the fusion core, but your armor's gone, I'm sorry."

"Do you want to explain to Maxson what happened, or should I?" he asked angrily. "It's bad enough that we abandoned our posts without telling anyone where we were going. But to lose a suit of power armor…we should consider ourselves incredibly fortunate if all he does is lecture us."

MacCready sighed as he walked into the room. Myra stood by Danse's bed, her arms crossed. The Paladin was sitting upright, his dark brown eyes filled with nervous energy. "Hey," the mercenary said, drawing their attention, "You both need to calm down before you hurt yourselves."

"Shut up, MacCready," they said in unison.

"No. Heck no. You two need to listen to me this time. Myra, I know you're angry at Danse for caring so much about his stupid armor when he almost died. That's fine, but you're not going to help him by just yelling at him, ok?"

Myra rolled her eyes, but kept her mouth shut.

"Danse," Mac continued, "there's got to be something we can do about your armor. It can't be the only set of T-60 armor we have access to, right? Myra, isn't there that set you've got sitting in your house in Sanctuary?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but it's all beaten up, and missing a helmet."

"Great! Danse doesn't wear his anyway. No one will notice. We can ask Sturges to fix it up for us."

"That…might work, actually," Myra replied. "What do you think, Danse?"

"Very well," the Paladin sighed. "But that still doesn't change the fact that we disobeyed orders."

"I'll worry about that, Danse," Myra said. She turned back to MacCready. "Mac, if I can get a vertibird here, can you get Danse up to Sanctuary? I'll radio Kestrel's friend Ignatius to meet us there."

MacCready nodded. "No problem. I'll make sure he doesn't fall out of the stupid thing."

Myra grinned. "That'd be a sight. Thanks."

Danse frowned. "You're not going back to the _Prydwen _alone, are you?"

She nodded. "I'll go deal with Maxson, explain that I didn't give you a choice. That's pretty much the truth anyway. I'll join you in Sanctuary when I'm done. There's...there's some things I need to take care of, there, and it's a safe place for you to heal up. When you're better and we've fixed up that armor, we'll report back in together, I promise."

"You don't have to do that, Larimer" the Paladin retorted. "I'm your commanding officer. It's my responsibility."

Myra frowned, grabbing his hand. "Damn it, Danse! You saved my life, and almost lost yours in the process. I fucking owe you, ok? Just this once, will you let me take care of you?"

He stared at her in shock. "I…" Danse sighed. "Very well. But only this one time, since we're technically in your jurisdiction...General."

"And don't forget it," she replied, squeezing his hand. The two of them locked eyes, gazing warmly at each other as though frozen in place.

MacCready glanced over at Carrington, but the doctor didn't seem to notice. He was too busy repacking his supplies for the long walk back to the church. The mercenary cleared his throat, startling Myra and Danse. The pair quickly moved away from each other, red-faced.

"Well, that's settled, then," MacCready said. "Let's get you up, and dressed, Danse. Myra, I'll let you know when we're ready to go."

"Ok. I'll go see if I can contact the _Prydwen_," she replied, rushing from the room towards the courtyard.

MacCready frowned, once more choking back the nagging feeling in his gut. Everything was going to be fine. So why was he so worried?


	4. The Gathering Hymn

**4\. The Gathering Hymn**

_Myra brings Danse back to Sanctuary as his recovery continues, only to get dragged into one of Deacon's missions when one of her friends vanishes without a trace._

* * *

Deacon sat in a rusty metal patio chair in Whisper's driveway, sipping casually on a glass of some god-awful cocktail the barkeep had called a "Sneezing Glowfish". The spy wasn't sure what was in it, just that it had the signature blue glow of a Nuka Quantum and tasted like licking the bottom shelf of a liquor cabinet. Someone needed to hire Marcy Long a proper bartender, and that was a fact.

The spy wasn't usually one for sitting out in the open, but in this case, his current job demanded it. Besides, it wasn't like Whisper was home. Last he'd heard, she was off killing Gunners with MacCready. Talk around Sanctuary also placed her at the Castle within the last week, but he hadn't been able to confirm that. Either way, she wasn't home to tell him to keep off the furniture. So he'd made himself at home, setting up a small tailor's shop in the old carpark. Stupid cover stories. He'd need to think of one that was less work to maintain next time.

"Shall I fetch you another drink, sir?" asked Codsworth, hovering nearby.

Deacon shook his head. "That's quite all right, Codsworth. This one's...well, it'll be enough."

The Mr. Handy seemed to float a little lower towards the ground, as if defeated. "Mr. Stitches, the letter you brought me from my mistress expressly said that I should do everything I could to care for your needs. How exactly am I to do that when you refuse to allow me?"

The spy sighed. He should have phrased the forged note better. You'd think after spending so many years working with synths, he'd understand how robotic minds worked. "If you want to help, Codsworth," he mused, "I suppose you could tilt my umbrella slightly to the left."

"Very good, sir," the robot piped. It was difficult to tell for certain, but Deacon was convinced that Codsworth was being sarcastic.

"I mean, you don't have to," he continued. "Just, if you're bored."

"I was programmed to keep myself perfectly occupied at all times, sir," Codsworth muttered. "If you have no actual tasks for me to preform, I really should get back to cleaning. Miss Myra could be home at any time, and I want the place to look immaculate."

Deacon sighed. "Well, you do you, pal. I'll be here, waiting for customers."

The clothing market in Sanctuary was terrible, it turned out. Due to the large number of wardrobes and suitcases that had remained in the subdivision after the bombs fell, it was fairly easy for the town's residents to find nice clothes. The few customers Deacon had gotten all wanted difficult-to-find items like pre-war underwear. Or they were looking for things he didn't sell, like armor and weapons.

Still, while the clothing business was terrible, the spy business was thriving, and not just for the Railroad. Deacon had discovered three other agents in his first week alone. He wasn't entirely sure who they were working for, so he kept his distance and simply pretended to be "Billy Stitches, friend of the General." He figured no one would peg him for a spy if he acted like an idiot, and so far, his plan had been working perfectly.

He frowned as his eyes met those of a squat, toad-like man who wobbled over to the car park, coughing phlegm into a filthy handkerchief as he approached. Deacon groaned inwardly as he flashed the man a charming smile.

"Welcome to Billy's!" the spy chirped. "Is there anything special you're looking for today?"

The man frowned at him, muddy green eyes narrowed. "No. I'll tell you if I want anything."

"Okay, well, I'll be here," Deacon replied, off-put by the man's brusqueness. He'd never met the human embodiment of slime before, but today might just have been the day. Something about the guy just seemed wrong, unsettling in a way Deacon couldn't quite place. Still, his instincts had saved his life on many occasions, and if they said this guy was trouble, Deacon wasn't about to question them. He eased back into his chair, watching the man out of the corner of his eye.

As the man browsed, a thin young woman approached the clothing stand, her eyes hollow and dead. Her arms hung at her sides as she walked towards the man, her head inclined downwards. When she reached him, the man looked up at her with a snarl. "And where the fuck have you been?" he growled. "I told you, pay for our room and then come back. It's been twenty fucking minutes!"

"I…" she murmured softly, "I couldn't find you. You didn't tell me where you were go-"

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" he barked, grabbing her arm roughly. "I said five minutes. You're supposed to be smart, right? No more fucking excuses."

"Sorry!" she cried, bowing her head. "It's my fault."

"Damn right it is. Now, where's my change?"

"There wasn't any," she replied softly, cringing.

"What?" the man screamed. "Don't give me that shit! I gave you fifty caps!"

"I...no," she murmured. "You just gave me ten. Remember? You counted them out to me."

"Like hell I did! You filthy, stealing whore! I ought to…" He raised his arm to strike her, and the girl whimpered, cowering in terror.

Deacon sighed. "Leave her alone, asshole," he interrupted.

The man turned to him, eyes wide with rage. "Oh, you want some of this, too?" he growled, his open hand tightening into a fist.

Deacon rolled his eyes. "Really? No, man. But you're threatening this girl in my shop, and I have a right to complain about that. You hurt her, and I'll call security. I'd love to see what the Minutemen have to say about this."

The man's eyes darted towards the frightened girl, then back to Deacon. He grabbed Deacon's collar, dragging him up out of his chair. "Fine. We're leaving. But don't think we're fucking done here. You'd better watch your back, shithead."

"Like you're the first person who's ever told me that," Deacon said softly, rubbing his neck after the man released him. He watched the man leave, broken girl in tow, and shook his head. It had to be the guy, right? The girl looked like she'd once matched the description Deacon had been given, the latest in a series of liberated synths that had gone missing over the last year. If he was right…

"I'll get you out of this, Natalie," he murmured, pulling a scrap of paper out of his pocket. The sketch showed a young, bright-eyed woman, smiling warmly at the artist. It had only been a few weeks since she'd vanished from her home near Jamaica Plain. How had she already changed this much?

Deacon's thoughts were interrupted by the whir of vertibird engines as one of the Brotherhood's flying death traps landed on a slab of concrete in a nearby vacant lot. He frowned. As far as he knew, the Brotherhood wasn't supposed to enter Sanctuary. It was one of the reasons why he'd picked this spot for his stakeout. The spy ducked into Whisper's house, keeping his eye on the craft. Two figures emerged, then the aircraft left. Deacon frowned, readying his sniper rifle and peering through the scope.

He recognized MacCready immediately. The slight sniper was, acting as a crutch for the other person, tucked under that man's arm. The second figure was someone Deacon didn't recognize. He was tall, handsome in that rugged sort of way with dark, messy hair and well-developed muscles. He seemed to be quite badly injured, his upper body wrapped in bandages that were covered somewhat by a black shirt that rested partially-unbuttoned, on his broad torso. As the pair drew closer to Whisper's house, Deacon approached them, frowning in concern.

"MacCready? What are you doing here?" he asked.

"What am I doing here?" the sniper asked, his eyes widening. "What are _you _doing here? This is Myra's house!"

"I know," Deacon replied. "I'm...borrowing it while she's out of town. I'm here for…well, for work. Billy Stitches has to make a living, you know."

MacCready rolled his eyes. "Oh man, another stupid cover?"

"Hey," hissed the spy, "keep your voice down!"

The sniper nodded. "Sorry. Anyway, Myra sent us here. We're supposed to be meeting up with a doctor...Nauseous, I think she said?"

Deacon snickered. "You mean Ignatius?"

"Yeah, that's the guy! Is he here?"

The spy shook his head. "I haven't seen him around in a while, honestly. Last I heard, he was up by Lynn Woods. But if Myra says he's coming here, I'm sure he's on his way."

"Yeah, like that helps me now," MacCready groaned. "Hey, can you help me get Danse into a bed while we wait for the doctor to show up? He's been doing better, but the vertibird ride took a lot out of him."

"Danse?" Deacon's eyes widened at the sound of the Paladin's name. He looked over the second man more carefully, recognition setting in. "So that's what's under all that armor! I always figured there was just a second, smaller suit of power armor under there."

Danse groaned in pain, his deep brown eyes meeting Deacon's sunglasses. "Do I know you?" he moaned.

Deacon shook his head. "No. I mean, we haven't met. But you're a friend of Myra's, right?"

"Affirmative," Danse replied weakly.

"Well, so am I. And I guess that makes us, like, friend-adjacent? Definitely close enough for me to help out." Deacon came around to the Paladin's other side, easing some of Danse's weight onto his shoulders. "Let's go get you comfortable," he continued. "And then, I'll expect you to tell me exactly what I missed, Mac."

"You got it," MacCready replied as they helped Danse into the house. "I mean, I wasn't there for the whole thing either, but I'll tell you what I know."

Getting Danse onto Whisper's bed was fairly easy. Gravity did most of the work. The hard part was getting him to lie still once he was down. "This is ridiculous," Danse muttered. "If I'm well enough to travel, I'm well enough to take care of myself."

MacCready shook his head. "Danse, we've been over this, remember? Right now, you're feeling pretty good, but that's because of all the chems. You're basically held together by stitches and stubbornness at this point. Now rest, or I'll give you more sedative and force you to rest."

The Paladin grumbled, pulling an old blanket over himself. "Very well. But only until Larimer arrives. Then it's her call."

"That's fine with me," the mercenary replied, smirking. "You and I both know she's way less likely to let you get away with anything."

"Perhaps," Danse muttered, "but I believe she owes me a favor, given the fact that I helped her leave the _Prydwen _when she was supposed to be on bed rest."

Deacon sighed. "You're both idiots," he mused. "No wonder the two of you are thick as thieves." He took his leave, heading out to the living room.

After MacCready had gotten Danse settled in Myra's bedroom, he sat on the couch in her living room next to Deacon, a pair of mismatched glasses in his hands. He offered one to the spy, who looked at him questioningly. "What's this, Mac?"

"Just a little something to take the edge off," the mercenary replied. "You've been stiff as a Diamond City virgin ever since Danse and I got here. Something's on your mind, right?"

Deacon nodded. "I can't really talk about it. Just, the mission I'm on right now hits a little close to home, that's all."

"Sorry," MacCready said simply. "Well, if you change your mind, I'm here."

Deacon smiled fondly at the younger man as he sampled his drink. It was smooth and warming, with just a hint of sweetness on the back end. Now that was more like it. "You know, MacCready," the spy said, "if you ever decide to quit the mercenary life, there's -"

MacCready snorted. "I'm never joining the Railroad, Deacon. We've been over this."

Deacon sighed. "For once, I wasn't suggesting that. I just think you should consider bartending. Trust me, there's no competition around here. You'd make a killing."

The mercenary chuckled. "You're full of it."

"Of booze, yeah," Deacon agreed. "But really. What's your long term plan, pal? We've known each other quite a while now, and I don't think I've ever heard you talk about one."

"Well, the current plan is to not die," MacCready replied with a smirk. "And I've got some personal stuff I need to take care of. After that, I guess I haven't really given it much thought. Kinda seems stupid, you know? Why plan for something if you don't know if you're even gonna get to hold on to what you've got?"

Deacon nodded. "Guess that makes sense. We're probably pretty similar in that way. Railroad agents don't have a great survival rate. I should know." He grinned. "You know, with all the facial surgery, I'm on probably...what is it now, my sixth life? Even the coolest cats only get the nine. Though, there was that time I _was _a cat for a few months. Crazy story, that one. So maybe I get the eight extra cat lives too."

MacCready frowned. "There's no way that's true. How the heck would you even become a cat?"

The spy chuckled. "Yeah, you got me. But can you imagine?"

Mac thought for a moment. "I really can't," he said finally. "But why do you wanna know about my plans?"

"Can't I ask my dear not-friend about his life?" Deacon scoffed, pretending to be offended. "It's no big deal. I...I guess I've just been thinking about it a lot lately. Like, what if we beat the odds and actually survive this stuff with the Institute? What then? I mean, I'll probably be out of a job, at least until the next threat rears its head. So I've just been wondering, I guess."

MacCready nodded. "I guess that makes sense. I never really thought about what happens if we win."

Deacon laughed. "Well, that's comforting!"

"Isn't it just?" The mercenary grimaced. "Man, now you've got me all worried about it too. Thanks for that."

"Any time, pal," Deacon replied with a smirk. "Now, what's this about Carrington and a sea monster?"

* * *

Night fell over Sanctuary like a gentle blanket, and all was surprisingly peaceful in the old Larimer house. MacCready had passed out on the couch, his snores filling the living room. Deacon wandered into the bedroom to check on Danse, a couple syringes of Psycho in his hand. He could still finish his mission and snuff out the Paladin's life, wipe the failure off of his record. The stimulants in the chems could easily overwhelm Danse's weakened body, sending him into cardiac arrest. It probably wouldn't even be that painful for the soldier, compared to what he'd already gone through.

Deacon stared down at Danse's sleeping form, gritting his teeth. The man was resting peacefully, his bandaged chest rising and falling softly with each breath. There was a gentleness to his chiseled features that wasn't apparent when he was awake, an almost boy-like quality that gave Deacon pause. For all the danger the Paladin posed to the Railroad, to Whisper, it was hard to see him as much of a threat now.

The spy shook his head. No. Even apex predators appeared harmless when they were asleep. And Danse was pretty damn high on the food chain. He was one of Maxson's top men, with a record of synth deaths long enough to fill a notebook. This wasn't just about striking a bow against the Brotherhood. It was about preserving lives. The greater good. All that crap Desdemona was always spouting that Deacon liked to pretend he believed in. With just a few quick jabs, how many lives could the spy save?

Danse moaned in his sleep, his brow furrowing. He muttered under his breath, eyes darting rapidly beneath closed eyelids as he dreamed. Deacon wondered what a Brotherhood Paladin could possibly fear that would cause such a sudden shift in his sleeping pattern. Did he somehow know the threat of death that loomed over him?

"No...Myra…" Danse murmured, his face contorting in worry. "Come back...not safe…"

Deacon froze at the sound of Whisper's name, the mumbled warning. Of course, it made sense that the Paladin was worried about her. From the sound of things, he'd been doing nothing but worry about her since the last time Deacon had seen them.

He sighed, sneaking the chems into the bedside table. It wasn't right, killing Danse like this. Even if it was the right thing to do, even if it meant keeping Whisper safe...would she see it that way? Somehow, Deacon doubted it. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was too late to make things right. At this point, Danse's death would cause more harm than good.

Deacon turned and left the room, trying to understand why he felt so relieved at his decision. This was the third time he'd spared the Paladin's life, the third time that he'd made the choice to keep Danse safe...not for his own merit, but for Whisper's. Why? Why did one woman's life and happiness mean so much to him? It wasn't like he was responsible for her welfare, not since he'd brought her home the day she emerged from Vault 111. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. So why did Deacon constantly feel this need to keep her happy?

His mind tried to justify his actions. This wasn't just about Whisper. It was about the fate of the Railroad. If Maxson retaliated, as Deacon knew he was likely to, the Minutemen would probably be his first target. Hell, Whisper would be his first target, since Danse would have died in her house. With the Minutemen destroyed, life would get even more difficult for the Railroad. As much as he hated to admit it, Deacon knew his organization would not survive long in a total power vacuum. It definitely wouldn't survive under Brotherhood rule, not the way things were under Maxson. After all, the Elder had nearly broken the DC chapter of the Railroad, sending its few remaining members scrambling into the wastes. If that happened here...would anyone survive?

The spy shook his head, trying to dislodge the growing dread that was building in the back of his mind. He returned to the living room, easing himself into a padded chair next to the couch, where MacCready still slept, oblivious of the turmoil in Deacon's mind.

Just as he was beginning to fall asleep, the familiar whir of engines caught his ear. Deacon groaned, dragging himself to his feet. There were only two real possibilities where that sound was concerned. Either the Brotherhood was invading Sanctuary, or…

Whisper walked slowly through the door, not even glancing towards the living room furniture as she trod wearily towards her bedroom, dropping her pack to the floor with a heavy whomp.

"Welcome home, Whisp!" Deacon called softly.

She shrieked, spinning on her heels, her laser rifle already at her shoulder.

"Hey!" the spy cried in response, "Hey, it's me. It's just Deacon."

Whisper frowned, lowering her gun. "Deacon? You scared the crap out of me! What are you doing in my house?"

"I'm here on business. I've been using your house as a base for some undercover work. I hope you don't mind."

"I...I kind of do mind, actually," she replied. "Look, Deacon, not that it's not great to see you, but I've had a hell of a day, and I just want to go to bed. So if you don't mind, I'm gonna…"

"Wait!" Deacon protested. "Sorry, just...Danse is in there."

"Danse?" she muttered, yawning. "Right, yeah. Well, I guess the couch is -"

"And MacCready's sleeping on the couch," Deacon continued.

There was a groan from the couch as the mercenary sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Well, I was, until someone decided to scream in my fuc...um, my stupid ear."

"Sorry, Mac," Whisper replied, smiling wearily at him. "Blame Deacon."

"I usually do," MacCready replied with a yawn. "Took you long enough to get here. What time is it?"

"Like, two in the morning. I came as soon as I was done speaking to Maxson."

"That bad, huh?" the mercenary murmured. "Ouch."

Whisper sighed. "I wouldn't say bad, necessarily. There was a lot of yelling, but I'm pretty sure that's Maxson's love language, so it probably wasn't as terrible as it seemed. It was more just...exhausting."

"Some people never change," MacCready replied. He stood up, gesturing to the couch. "Here, you can take the couch. I can sleep on the floor."

Whisper shook her head. "I'm going to go sleep at Preston's house, since I know he's still at the Castle. You guys get some rest. I'll…" she yawned again, violently. "I'll deal with all this in the morning."

"You shouldn't go alone, Whisp," Deacon warned. "I'll go with you." He walked over to her pack, throwing it over his shoulder.

"You don't have to," Whisper replied with a faint smile. "I'll be fine. It's Sanctuary. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Besides were-deathclaw attacks?" Deacon offered. "Overzealous fans of the General hounding you to kiss their babies? Bad milk?"

Whisper chuckled. "Oh, so the usual dangers. I think I can handle myself. Thanks."

Deacon scowled as he thought about his interaction with the hideous creep earlier in the day. Could he really trust that Myra would be safe if he let her go by herself? She wasn't a synth, not as far as he was aware, but what if the man wasn't just targeting synths? She certainly fit the profile of the sort of women the kidnapper was going after: young, tall, beautiful...alone. "Please, Whisp," the spy begged softly. "Just humor me, ok?"

Her eyes widened slightly at his urgent tone. "You're actually worried about something, aren't you?"

He nodded. "I don't have enough information to tell you exactly what's going on, not yet. But until I finish my investigation, please...just let me make sure you're safe."

Whisper rolled her eyes. "Fine. You've already got my stuff, so I'll take you with me. Mac, please keep an eye on Danse. Ignatius radioed in a couple hours ago. He's on his way back from Lynn Woods, but he needs to stop at Outpost Zimonja for a few things. He should be here in the morning."

MacCready nodded. "I'll make sure he's got whatever he needs."

"Thanks," Whisper replied, smiling gently at him. "We'll see you in the morning."

"Be careful," the mercenary called after them.

"You too," Deacon replied. He and Whisper headed down the street towards Preston's bachelor pad. As they walked, Deacon noticed his companion was slowly falling behind, so he shortened his stride length, trying to keep her in his sight. With an unknown number of enemies in the area, he couldn't afford to take chances.

Whisper smiled sleepily at him. "It really is good to see you, you know."

"Yeah?" he replied.

"It's felt...kinda lonely, I guess, not having you constantly stalking me any more. I know that probably seems strange."

"Not at all," Deacon chuckled. "I mean, who wouldn't want to have me around? I'm awesome."

"It's just…" Whisper thought for a moment. "I don't know. It's just that, in spite of how completely creepy it was, you were like, the one constant in my life for a couple months there. Whenever I was scared, or in trouble, it was kinda comforting, knowing you were nearby. That I wasn't alone."

"Well, shucks," the spy retorted. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special."

Whisper snorted. "Don't let it go to your head. It's just good to know you're around. When I see you, I know everything's gonna work out."

Deacon blushed, grateful for the darkness that hid the evidence from his companion. "Well. Yeah. Um, good talk, Whisp. You should get some sleep."

"Ok," she replied. "If it's ok with you, I'd like to be alone for a while."

The spy pouted at her. "Aww, no cuddle time? I was looking forward to it! We could have a pillow fight and talk about boys!"

"Maybe another time. But Deacon?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you...I mean, would you mind staying nearby?"

He smiled, ruffling her snowy hair. "Of course. I'm only a few hours away from earning my Stalker merit badge, you know. I won't let you out of my sight."

"Thanks," she said softly, leaning up and kissing his cheek.

Deacon froze at the contact, his mouth hanging open slightly as the cool touch of her lips seemed to radiate across his cheek. He did his best to regain his composure, however, and shot Whisper a sardonic smile. "Does Danse know you're kissing all the boys, Whisp? Or is this an elaborate plot to get me killed? He seems like the jealous type."

"I...we…" Whisper stammered. "God damn it. Just shut up before I regret asking you to stay, ok, Deeks?"

"No can do, gorgeous," he chuckled. "You know full well that I'm incapable of silence, unless I'm doing something really, really dangerous."

Whisper sighed. "That's it. I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah," Deacon replied. "Sleep well, ok?"

Whisper nodded, disappearing down the hall. Deacon sighed, flopping down on Preston's couch. His fingers ghosted over his cheek, where he could still feel the touch of her lips, and he smiled slightly. It felt good to be missed, he'd admit. More than that, it was nice to be close to someone again, even with the professional distance he had to keep between them. That someone really cared if he lived or died...he hadn't felt that in a long time, not even when Trailblazer was still under his care.

The spy did his best to stay awake, but it didn't take long for him to fall into a deep and restful sleep for the first time in a long time.

* * *

"What a cool house!" a shrill voice rang out, rousing Deacon from his slumber.

"Shh!" Hissed another. "Renata, you can't just barge into people's homes without asking."

"Oh! Whoops!" cried the first voice. Deacon opened one eye, staring across the room at the invaders. A small girl, probably only five or so, stood awkwardly in front of him, her large blue eyes bashful as they met his sunglasses. Behind her was a large man, scars criss-crossing his tanned arms. He smiled down at the girl, his warm hazel eyes watching her carefully. The man reached for the girl's hand, pulling the her back towards him as Deacon sat up.

"Good morning, Ignatius," Deacon mumbled as he recognized the doctor. "Who's the kid?"

"This is Ren," Ignatius replied. "Say hello, Ren."

"Hi!" piped the girl, waving at Deacon with a wide smile that made his heart melt just a little. "Sorry I woke you up!"

"That's ok, sweetie. I should be up anyway." Deacon said, patting his coat pockets in search of some trinket to offer her. Finally, he found and extracted a box of gumdrops, which he handed to the gleeful child. "Here. For being such a good alarm clock."

The girl looked to Ignatius with questioning eyes, and the tall man nodded once, giving her permission to take the gift. "Thanks!" she chirped, tearing into the packaging as the men smiled at her.

"Well, she's a lively one," Deacon commented. "She yours, or you find her somewhere?"

"She's...well, she's Kestrel's daughter." the doctor said, his eyes distant for a moment. "After I finish up here, we're headed to the Castle. Kestrel says it's safe there, now, and they've been missing each other."

"So you're on babysitting duty, huh?" Deacon asked. "What's the going rate for that these days? Does Kestrel let you watch tv after Ren's asleep?"

"I don't understand you at all," muttered Ignatius."Do you know where the General is? I'm supposed to help her with something. Probably that wounded soldier in her house."

Deacon frowned. "MacCready should have been at the General's house to meet you."

"There wasn't anyone there besides the soldier," Ignatius replied. "And he was sound asleep, so I decided to come looking for the General. Someone said they saw her come down here with you last night."

"That's right." Deacon thought for a moment. "Myra's probably still asleep. Odd that Mac wasn't around. I wonder if he woke up early to go get breakfast."

Deacon led Ignatius and Ren back to Whisper's house, trying not to worry too much. It wasn't unlike MacCready to take off without telling anyone. Chances were good that he'd show up in a couple hours.

"As you know, the patient's in this back room," Deacon said, gesturing down the hall. "I'll come introduce you, then I'll go wake Myra up. I'm sure she'd like to be here."

"That's very kind of you," the doctor replied. He turned to Ren. "Now, little duck, will you promise to sit right over there in that chair until I come back?"

The child smirked. "What do I get if I'm good, Mr. 'Natius?"

Ignatius sighed, running a hand through his cropped ebony hair. "I swear, you're too much like your parents. What will it take?"

"Snack cakes! A whole box!" the girl exclaimed with a giggle.

"Two cakes. That's already more sugar than you should be eating," the doctor added. "Your mother told me not to let you have too much, and Mr. Deacon's already given you some."

The girl shook her head. "Half a box, and I get a piggyback ride after."

"I don't think-"

"There's so many dangerous things I can touch here! I'm gonna touch them!"

"Renata Cadia Davis, don't even think about it," growled Ignatius.

"Half a box, and I won't," Ren insisted, grinning ear to ear.

Deacon snorted, trying to hold in his laughter. There was something so hilarious about seeing such a burly man get manipulated by such a little girl.

Ignatius glared at her. "Four cakes, Ren, and a piggyback ride. But you'll have to sit right in that chair and not move until I say so, ok?"

"Deal!" she shrieked, hopping up on the chair. She wormed around in the box of gumdrops with her tiny fingers, concentrating as she tried to extract the candy.

Ignatius smiled fondly at the child. "I won't be too long. Deacon, please show me what we're dealing with."

"Sure," the spy replied with a grin, "if I can get a piggyback ride too. I'll bet I could see all the way to the coast from up there!"

"Don't push your luck, spy," muttered Ignatius. "You should be happy enough that I'm not asking what brings you into my territory."

"Is there a single one of you Minutemen who knows how to take a joke?" Deacon replied, feigning offense. "Of course, you new bloods are even more uptight. Mad your new uniforms don't involve skirts?"

Ignatius stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide. His look of surprise soon faded into an easy smile, however. "I'd heard your people were good, Deacon. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"What can I say? It's a talent." Deacon laughed, leading Ignatius to Whisper's bedroom.

Danse was sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the town beyond. As the men entered, he turned to look at them, rich brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who are you? Where is Larimer?"

Ignatius gave him an easy smile, setting his doctor's bag on the bedside table. "My name's Ignatius. I'm with the Minutemen. The General asked me to take a look at your injuries."

The Paladin sighed. "I'm recovering well. The last doctor Larimer asked to tend to my wounds did a more than adequate job. My main concern is how long I'm meant to be bedridden."

Ignatius nodded. "I understand. You're a soldier. It must bother you to be trapped inside. Here, let me take a look under those bandages."

Danse helped him unwrap the strips of cloth, revealing the twisted, angry flesh beneath. He hissed in pain as the doctor's hands ghosted over some of the worst areas.

Deacon stared at the Paladin, his eyes wide. No wonder the man had almost died! His entire torso was splotched with bruises in various states of healing, a canvas of blue, purple, yellow, and sickly green. A series of long, deep slashes ran across his chest, stitched together carefully by Carrington's even hand, the flesh puckering along the sutures in jagged ridges where the tissue hadn't quite knitted back together right. And weeping patches of burned skin completed the picture, extra bandaging barely concealing the oozing lymph that tried to repair the damage. Deacon had a pretty strong stomach, but the sight was almost too much for him.

Ignatius smiled kindly at Danse. "The good news is that it's a lot better than it looks, I think. Considering the damage, I think you'll recover well."

"Yes," muttered Danse, "but how long will it take?"

"Hard to say. At this point, the best thing we can do for you is to get some of the swelling down." Ignatius poked through his bag, pulling out a small sack and some fresh bandages. He turned to Deacon. "Hey, can you get me some hot water? Marcy should have some at the bar."

Deacon nodded. "I'll be right back." He was grateful for the opportunity to flee the room, honestly. There was something about seeing Danse like that, raw and vulnerable, that unnerved him. MacCready had acted like the battle for the Castle had been no big deal, but...what if Whisper had been the one torn apart by the mirelurk queen's claws? Or Mac? At least Danse's power armor had protected him somewhat. If either of them had been in his place…

Deacon coughed as bile filled his mouth. He spat into one of the dead bushes in Whisper's yard, berating himself. No, it wasn't right to speculate. Danse had done the right thing and had protected Whisper. MacCready hadn't even been there until the queen was dead. Everyone had survived. So why did the image of their broken corpses haunt his thoughts?

The spy rubbed his eyes, doing his best to shake off the dread that filled him. There wasn't time for this nonsense. Still, almost involuntarily, his steps took him in the opposite direction of Marcy's bar, towards Preston's house. He just needed to see Whisper, to know that she was still safe. Then, he'd be able to shake this stupid gloom from his shoulders and get back to work.

Whisper moaned awake as he shook her gently, her brilliant emerald eyes still groggy with sleep. "Is it morning already?" she moaned.

Deacon nodded. "Yeah. Ignatius is here. I thought you might like to be there when he got his hands on Danse. He's using some sort of weird herbal remedy on him, I think. Where did you find this guy?"

"Preston got him for us. Apparently he's pretty good, even if his methods are kind of old-school."

Deacon smirked. So Whisper didn't know the truth about Kestrel's little outfit. Well, that was probably for the best. It was bad enough that the Minutemen had their own spy division now. It was so much worse that they were as well-trained as the former legionaries were. If Whisper really knew the network she now had at her disposal, the Minutemen would definitely be a great deal more dangerous.

"Come on, then. Get dressed. I'll be waiting in the living room. No peeking, I promise."

"You'd better not, if you know what's good for you," Whisper muttered.

"Please," Deacon said with a smirk. "I've seen you in a vault suit. There's nothing left for me to be curious about."

Whisper blushed heavily, pushing him roughly out of the bedroom. "You're the worst, you know that?"

"Yep," he said, laughing. "But don't blame me. Blame those sick bastards at Vault-Tec."

"Trust me, I do," she hissed from behind the door. "Why do you think the first thing I did when I woke up was find a change of clothes?"

"I was wondering, actually," Deacon called back to her. "Don't get me wrong, green's a good color for you. But I think you looked pretty fetching in blue."

"Do you wanna die?" she exclaimed. "Because it seems to me like you wanna die."

"I'll be good, I promise," the spy replied. "I won't mention it again, cross my heart."

"Thank God," Whisper muttered, emerging from the room at last. She wasn't wearing her flannel, for once. Instead, she'd changed into a minuteman uniform, the khaki jacket rolled up at the sleeves. "Ugh, I hate this color. We should change it. I'm thinking blue. What do you think?"

Deacon held his tongue, but it was difficult. "Um...blue's a good choice," he offered finally. Was she messing with him?

"I'll talk to Preston about it," Whisper replied, ignoring his struggle. "Let's go. I haven't met Ignatius yet, but if he's anything like Kes, I'd better make a good first impression."

"I'm sure you will," Deacon affirmed, following behind her.

* * *

As Whisper and the doctor tended to Danse, Deacon decided to take a walk around Sanctuary. He was still unnerved that MacCready hadn't shown up yet. Where could the sniper have gotten to?

He decided to check the most likely place first, the _Last Minuteman _. Since it was already mid-morning, Marcy's breakfast rush had already slowed to a crawl. There were a couple caravan drivers at the bar, discussing the price and availability of various types of crops loudly. Deacon ignored them, instead turning his attention to the bar's owner, who stood leaning against the wall with crossed arms, shrewd eyes surveying her domain.

"Hey, Marce," Deacon crooned. "How's business today?"

"It could be worse, Billy," Marcy replied coldly. "Still, we need to get more traffic soon, or I might as well be running an abandoned shack."

"I hear you. The tailor shop hasn't been doing well either. Of course, I think location's my big problem."

"I still don't know why the General gave you permission to run your shop out of her house," the fierce woman retorted. "She's never so much as spent a cap of her own money here."

"Well, I did save her life and all," Deacon said, smiling. "But you've got a point. She should really be doing more for you."

"You're right about that," Marcy replied. "Now, are you here for food, booze, or something else."

The spy chuckled. "Information, actually."

"Oh, yeah? What do you want to know?"

"Two things. One, have you seen MacCready this morning?"

Marcy rolled her eyes. "No. Damn shame, too. He might be a filthy little bastard, but he always pays me well. I've never seen anyone eat the way he does. Does Preston starve him or something?"

Deacon shook his head. "No, he's always been like that. Told me once it was because he's been playing catch-up his whole life, but I think he's just a pig."

"Anyways," Marcy continued, "I haven't seen him. Why, he in some kind of trouble?"

"I hope not. I just wanted to talk to him. If he does come by, let me know, ok?"

"Hey! I'm not a messenger service!" Marcy barked. "But I'll tell him you were looking for him if I see him, ok?"

"That's good enough," Deacon said. "Thanks, Marcy."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "Now, what else did you want to know? Make it quick, I've got to clean the tables before the lunch rush starts."

"I was wondering about that couple who checked in yesterday. Short, ugly guy, cute, shy girl?"

"What do you want with those two?" Marcy growled. "They'd better not be friends of yours."

"Don't worry, they aren't."

"Good. Those two are trouble, Billy, and not in the fun way," Marcy whispered, crooking her finger at Deacon. The spy came closer, and Marcy grimaced, her voice hushed. "They left in the middle of the night, in an awful hurry. I wasn't sure why, but when I went to clean the room they were using…" she shook her head. "They trashed it to hell. Some people have no respect for other people's property, you know?"

Deacon nodded. "I'm sorry to hear it. Did anyone see them leave?"

Marcy sighed. "You can check with ol' Frank down at the gate. Course, he wasn't on shift last night, or if he was, he's a pretty shitty guard, since he was keeping company with that Parker fellow all night."

"Good for Frank!" Deacon replied. "Who knew the old dog had it in him?"

"Right? Still, that's all I know. Now if you aren't ordering anything, get out of here, and if you get in trouble, I wasn't involved, ok?"

"Of course," Deacon replied, heading for the door.

"Oh, Billy, one more thing," Marcy called.

"Yeah, Marce?"

"I hope you find MacCready."

Deacon smiled worriedly at the woman. "Thanks. I hope so too."

Frank wasn't at the gate when Deacon checked, and the guard on duty hadn't seen him all morning. Seemed like he'd had a good night after all.

"Yeah, I saw those two," the young man said after Deacon gave him the description of his targets. "They went towards Concord, best I could tell. Not sure what they were selling, but their brahmin seemed pretty weighed down under all those boxes."

Deacon frowned. "Boxes? How big were they? And how many of them were there?"

The man shrugged. "Like four or five? Couldn't have been more than that. They were big, like, real big."

"Like, person-sized?" the spy asked, dreading the answer.

"I mean, probably. Depends on the size of the person."

Deacon gulped. Damn it, he'd been right! The toad-faced man was involved, he was sure of it. And now, there was every possibility that the man had taken Mac. He thanked the guard and ran back towards Whisper's house, his mind racing.

"Whisp!" he yelled as he barreled through the door. "I think Mac's been kidnapped!"

Danse looked up from his seat at the dining room table. He'd been propped up with pillows and blankets, an empty bowl and a half-full glass of milk in front of him. "Who's Whisp?" he asked suspiciously.

Whisper stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of razorgrain gruel. "Oh, that's what he calls me, Danse. I think it has something to do with how I flit around. Isn't that right, Deacon?"

"That's Deacon?" Danse replied, eyeing the spy. "Huh."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Deacon gasped. "Come on, we don't have time for this. Something's happened to MacCready."

Whisper stared at him, her green eyes wide with confusion. "What the hell are you talking about, Deacon? Just because we haven't seen him all morning…"

"That's the thing," Deacon replied. "No one has. Not one person. Isn't that way too strange to be a coincidence?"

Whisper rolled her eyes as she ladled gruel into Danse's bowl, handing the Paladin a spoon. "Come on, Deeks. I think you're being a little paranoid. Calm down, and breathe. I'll bet Mac just stepped out for a minute. You know how he is."

Deacon nodded, trying his best to slow his breathing. "You're...you're right. I need to calm down. If I panic, I might miss something important. But I'm not just being paranoid, Whisp. The investigation I'm on...I think one of the guys involved might have hurt Mac to get to me."

Whisper poured the spy a glass of water, handing it to him. "Easy... start from the beginning. Why are you here, and what makes you think these guys took Mac?"

Deacon gulped down the water, his heart still pounding painfully in his chest. "Ok," he said softly. "But I really think we ought to talk somewhere more private, don't you?"

She glanced over at Danse, who was watching the whole exchange with confused eyes. Whisper nodded. "Of course. Come on. I know the perfect place. Danse, will you be ok on your own for a bit?"

"Do I have a choice?" the Paladin asked with a sigh, frowning at the gruel.

Whisper smiled gently at him, placing a kiss on the top of his head. "I'll come back as soon as I can," she soothed.

Danse stared up at her, blushing. "I...be careful, won't you Larimer?"

Whisper nodded, her cheeks burning as brightly as his. "Promise you'll rest up after breakfast, ok? If I hear you were wandering around, I'll be pissed."

"Affirmative," the Paladin muttered, turning his attention to the gruel.

Whisper sighed, turning her attention to Deacon. "Let's go. I'm dying to hear this theory of yours."

* * *

Deacon whistled in appreciation as he glanced about the art studio hidden away in an abandoned gas station. Paintings in various states of completion hung about what had been the garage, landscapes of places that no longer existed, bowls of long-extinct fruit...it was beautiful.

"Quite the gallery you've got here," he said appreciatively. "Can you do one of me? Something tasteful, please. I'm thinking lots of draped cloth. It's Carrington's birthday, soon, you see, and what can you get a guy who hates everything?"

Whisper chuckled at the mental image. "Maybe later. First, you'd better tell me what's going on."

Deacon sighed, plopping into a chair. "It's a long story, Whisp. I've been working on this case for a long time, now. You see, the synths the Railroad frees...well, you know how they don't remember being synths any more?"

She nodded. "Yeah, Doctor Amari mentioned that."

"Well, a lot of them have gone missing in the last year. Not all the models, mind you. Whoever's taking them, they seem to be focusing on pretty young females. We're not sure exactly what's going on, but we haven't been able to find any of them. Not until very recently."

Whisper's eyes went wide as Deacon produced a sketch of a young woman from his pocket. "Who is she?" she asked.

"Meet Natalie. She was liberated a few months back from a group of synths assigned to an Institute supply mission. We've been keeping a close eye on her. Not close enough, apparently. A few weeks ago, she vanished. Yesterday, I saw her. Here. In Sanctuary."

"Why would she be here?" Whisper said, frowning. "Sanctuary's not exactly the kidnapping capital of the Commonwealth. We've got a pretty safe town, all things considered."

"It didn't sound like she was going to get to stay long. She and the man she was with were staying at Marcy's place. At least, that's what it sounded like from the way he was screaming at the poor girl. She looked broken, Whisp. Like she'd been beaten into submission."

"Dear God," she gasped, her green eyes wide. "And you think that man has MacCready? But why? He's not a synth or a pretty girl."

Deacon frowned. "He threatened me when I tried to get him to lay off of Natalie. That's why I didn't want you to be alone last night. I never expected he'd go after Mac instead." He looked up at her. "I'm sorry. I was gonna run this one solo, like I have been. I didn't want to drag either of you into this mess."

Whisper took his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Deacon started at the touch, his eyes locked on hers in surprise. Her hand was cool against his skin, almost cold. It reminded him of the day he'd first seen her, irradiated and frozen, collapsed outside the vault. So much had changed since that day. He hadn't really expected her to survive more than a few weeks. He certainly hadn't expected her to thrive. But here she was, sitting beside him, her hand in his. Someone, comforting him? Deacon never thought he'd see the day.

"Deacon," Whisper said softly. "It's not your fault. Whatever happened to Mac, we'll find him. I promise. He's my friend too. I'm not going to let anyone hurt him if I can help it."

Deacon smiled slightly. "I knew you'd say that."

"Oh, yeah? Well, if you know so much, I'll bet you already have an idea of where we should start looking."

The spy nodded. "I have a couple ideas, actually." He pulled a crumpled map out of his pack, handing it to Whisper. "The dots show the last known location of each of the victims. Notice anything?"

Whisper furrowed her brow. "Yeah. I do. These follow the major caravan routes, don't they?"

Deacon frowned. "Yeah, but look closer. It's more than that."

She stared at the map, her fingers tracing possible connections between the sites. "Hang on. These aren't all on trade routes, are they? Only the disappearances from major settlements, which are all connected by the trade network anyway. But what they do all have in common is...water."

"Well done!" Deacon affirmed. "Yes, that's what I saw too. I think they're using the old drainage system to sneak around, only posing as a caravan when they're too far from the pipes. That's why they're so damn hard to track."

"So how will we find them, then?" she asked. "There's hundreds of miles of pipes under the Commonwealth."

"Yeah," Deacon replied, "but only a few that the Railroad hasn't mapped out. If we start here, near Forest Grove, I think we have a pretty good chance of flushing them out." He laughed. "Get it? Because it's a sewer!"

Whisper sighed. "You really have a knack for finding the most disgusting places to visit, don't you? Well, I'll go grab my waders and tell Danse what we're up to so he doesn't worry."

"I'd tell you to take your time," Deacon replied, "But honestly, I'm not sure how much MacCready has. So hurry back."

Whisper nodded. "Will do." And then, she was gone.


	5. The Captive

**5\. The Captive**

_MacCready does his best to survive his captivity. He meets a potential ally, who looks eerily like a ghost from his past._

* * *

A sudden jolt brought MacCready to his senses and he groaned in pain, his head throbbing. The smell of lumber filled his nose, the dusty sweetness overwhelming his senses. The mercenary felt about in the occlusion, trying to get his bearings in spite of the darkness that enveloped him. His hands brushed against raw, splintery wood in every direction, and he felt his pulse quicken as the reality of his situation became more apparent. He was in a box, and not a particularly nice box at that.

As the mercenary struggled, he heard muffled voices from somewhere beyond him. He kicked at the wood, trying to alert someone, anyone, of his plight. "Hey!" he shouted. "Hey, let me out! This isn't funny!"

The wood around him vibrated with a resonant thump as one of the people outside hit it, moving the box several inches with the force. MacCready cried out in pain as his head bounced off the top of the crate.

"Shut the fuck up!" an angry voice declared. "If I hear one more sound out of you, I'll drop this box in the river, do you understand?"

MacCready frowned. Did the man want him to say yes, or stay quiet? His mind raced as he tried to come up with a solution that wouldn't lead to being thrown into the water. It was bad enough that he couldn't swim. Things would be so much worse for him if he was also trapped in a box.

He sighed, deciding to stay silent. This was apparently the best choice, as the man didn't speak to him again. Instead, the conversation outside continued. MacCready strained his ears, trying to hear anything that could help him out of this mess.

"Sounds like this one's getting sent to the Grave with the girls," the man said.

"You're sure? Finch won't be pleased," replied a second voice, softer than the first.

"Hell yes, I'm sure," growled the first man. "Last thing we need is this shipment going out late. Bad enough we're short this time. We don't have time to waste."

"We could just kill him. Why are we going through all this trouble?"

"Orders from up top. Apparently someone really wants this guy to suffer. More importantly, they want to see him die, so we've gotta wait."

"They wanna watch? That's sick!" the second man replied. "I love it."

"Thought you might. It's a shame we didn't get the girl too, but…"

MacCready did his best to slow his racing pulse, to calm his panicked breathing. It wasn't the first time he'd been in this sort of danger, even if the box was a new development. He had to think.

There was one comfort. Since they weren't planning on killing him right away, he might have a chance to escape. But why had he gotten snatched in the first place? They were talking about revenge or something, about someone else needing to see him die. What the hell did that mean?

His stomach dropped as the crate moved again and he slid head-first against the back wall of the container. Damn it! At this rate, he was going to have a serious concussion. He muffled his cry of pain as best as he could. Orders or no orders, he knew a thing or two about the thugs of the Commonwealth, and they weren't the best at following directions once they were irritated enough. He wasn't about to risk dying before he had a chance to escape.

MacCready heard annoyed mooing as the crate lurched forward again. So he was on a pack brahmin. No wonder he was being bounced around so much. He winced, trying not to think about how many bruises he was earning. None of that would matter if he didn't find his way to safety before he encountered whoever wanted to watch him die.

He tried to focus on the limited information he had at his disposal. Who would want him killed this badly? Unfortunately, he could think of quite a few candidates. Being a gun-for-hire meant making enemies at the best of times, and with his winning personality, there were more than a few folks with personal grudges who'd probably like to watch the light leave his eyes.

The mercenary thought about his friends back in Sanctuary. Would Myra and Deacon have realized he was gone yet? Were they looking for him, or did they just assume he'd left without telling them anything? He had to hope that they were planning a rescue, but he knew he couldn't count on it. It had been a long time since he'd really counted on anyone.

MacCready wanted to believe that at least Deacon would come for him. They'd known each other for years now, and while he still wasn't certain if their relationship could be classified as friendship, he wanted to trust in the spy's apparent affection for him. It was so hard to tell whether Deacon was being serious, with those damned glasses of his always hiding his eyes, but there were times when Mac could almost swear that the older man was sincere when he spoke fondly of the mercenary. And even if he couldn't really trust Deacon, Mac could at least trust in his skills. If Deacon came for him, he knew he'd be ok.

What about Myra? MacCready still wasn't sure about her, not really. There were days when she seemed so strong, so capable of whatever she set her mind to. But there were others when she just didn't seem to give a damn about anyone or anything. How could he rely on someone so changeable, so unsure of themselves? He wasn't sure, but he sure as hell wanted to. MacCready wanted to believe in her promises, in the fact that she counted him as one of the people she cared about for some reason. But he was a realist. In the grand scheme of things, he knew that she wouldn't drop everything for someone like him. Not as long as Danse needed her.

He frowned as he thought about the Paladin. MacCready really did hope that Danse was ok. He might not have been the Brotherhood's biggest fan, but Danse wasn't the worst Brotherhood member he'd ever met. The man was gruff, stiff, and lawful to a fault, but he did genuinely seem to care about the well-being of the people around him. MacCready had seen it, the way he'd protected Myra, the way he'd protected a stupid young man out on the road for the first time...if there was any good left at all in the Brotherhood of Steel, Danse was part of it. That didn't mean that the Paladin didn't bother the crap out of MacCready, though.

There was just something about...well, the whole way the Paladin and Myra were together that really rubbed the mercenary the wrong way. Part of him wanted to intervene, to tell Danse to just stop being so useless and just tell Myra how he felt. But some soft murmur in the back of his mind was almost grateful that the Paladin seemed determined to not acknowledge his obvious affection for Myra. MacCready wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It wasn't jealousy, not really. It was a quiet unease rather than a feeling, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. It probably was nothing, a reflex.

MacCready's thoughts went to Preston, to Zev, to all the people he'd grown close to since he and Myra had met. He wondered if he'd ever see them again. Maybe he should have taken Preston up on his offer and joined the Minutemen formally. Then he wouldn't be dying alone, failing once again to be a part of anything bigger than himself. MacCready hated himself for that, in some ways. He still had the heart of a foul-mouthed child mayor, protecting his charges with vicious enthusiasm. That had mattered, hadn't it? He had...he'd done a good job, hadn't he? But those days were gone, and since he'd walked out of the cave system and into the adult world, he'd never found something to dedicate himself to, not really.

He thought he'd found meaning in Lucy, the naive girl who thought he was a soldier, who loved him unconditionally. But when she'd needed him, he'd failed, and she'd died horribly as a result. He tried to go on living, to be both mother and father to Duncan, but now his son lay dying as well, hundreds of miles away, his last hope quickly fading away. MacCready was powerless, trapped. He couldn't even save himself. How the hell had he ever expected to save anyone else?

As he lay in the darkness of the wooden crate feeling sorry for himself, MacCready suddenly realized that the jolting motion of the brahmin had stopped. For better or worse, the caravan had arrived at its destination.

"Is this all of them?" a new voice jeered.

One of MacCready's captors scoffed. "Yeah. Careful with the marked one. That's a special delivery."

"Right. An extra pretty one for the boss, huh?" the new voice asked.

"Not exactly. But all the same, hands off."

"Enough talk!" Growled a lower voice. "Get these crates loaded up. We've got a long way to go before we reach the Grave, and we're behind schedule as it is."

MacCready groaned inwardly as he felt the crate move again, the two men grunting with effort as they carried his box. They dropped him with an unceremonious thump on something metallic. The mercenary didn't bother to try and identify it. At this point, it didn't really matter. He was effectively blind and powerless, at least for now. As a motor chugged to life from somewhere behind his head, he faded into sleep. He needed to save his strength if he was going to make it out of this alive.

* * *

The box's heavy lid was pulled loose, and MacCready blinked at the surge of torchlight that overwhelmed his eyes as he was dumped onto a cold, moist concrete floor. Before he had a chance to react, he heard the clang of a metal door slamming shut, the turning of a key in a lock. It seemed that he'd traded one prison for another.

MacCready gagged at the smell of filth and sulfuric guano that permeated the air. As far as he could tell, he was in some sort of cavern. That, at least, wasn't the worst news he'd had all day. At least it was an environment he was familiar with.

He glanced around, trying to get his bearings. The chamber was large, even roomy, a bit bigger than Myra's house from what he could see in the limited light. There was a single entrance, a dented metal door anchored directly into the rock. He couldn't see what lay beyond.

MacCready tried the door, disappointed but not surprised that it was really locked. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd busted out of a cell because the idiot guards had forgotten to actually lock the door. If he still had his pack, he might have been able to crack the door open, but as it was, he had nothing on him but his clothes and a few splinters of wood from the crate that still clung to him.

He heard a soft whimper from deeper in the chamber, and the mercenary started at the noise. Was there another prisoner in here with him?

"Hello?" he called cautiously, squinting to see the vague shape of a crouching body in the gloom.

"Hello," a soft voice murmured back. "You're the new one, huh? Welcome to the Grave."

That voice. MacCready froze. After all the times it had called his name, he'd know it anywhere. But how was it possible? "Are we alone in here?" he asked, hoping to hear her reply again, to give him more than a few words to compare her voice to his memories. "I mean, the guys who grabbed me said there were others."

The figure sighed. "I've been alone, ever since the last one tried to run. There must be other rooms like this, I think. There were others with me, too, and they didn't end up here."

MacCready frowned. If that was the case, this must be a huge complex. How had he never heard of it before? He slowly approached the stranger, keeping his back to the wall. "So you've been all by yourself in here? That's fuc...I mean, that's really terrible."

"Yeah. At least I'm not alone any more. You'll stay, right?"

MacCready knelt beside the stranger. Her ash brown hair was long and ratty, streaked with filth and long-dried blood. But still, he'd know that head of hair anywhere. She looked up at him, and his stomach dropped. No. It wasn't possible.

The face that stared back at him was pretty, in a normal sort of way, a small, straight nose bordered by round, wholesome cheeks. Her eyes, distorted by anxiety, were a lovely shade of light amber brown, large and innocent. Even the scar on her narrow chin was familiar, right where he remembered it.

"Lucy?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What the...what are you doing here? You can't be...you're dead."

His long-dead wife looked at him in confusion, her brown eyes fearful. "I...I'm sorry. I think you have me confused with someone."

MacCready sighed. Not this again. He'd thought he'd finally stopped seeing her everywhere. It had been months since the last time he'd caught a streak of dark brown hair, had called her name, only to find himself looking into the eyes of a stranger. Maybe his grief was still messing with him more than he realized. "Hey, it's ok," he replied. "My mistake. Can you tell me your name?"

She nodded slightly, taking a shaky breath. "My name...I'm Lori. Wow. It's been a long time since anyone...since I really had a name, I guess."

"Okay, Lori," the mercenary soothed. "And how long have you been here?"

"Days? Weeks?" she glanced around frantically. "I don't know...it's all so confusing! What do they want with us?"

MacCready sighed. "I'm not sure. But I'm not going to wait around to find out. Wherever we are, there's got to be a way out. I know it."

"Are you crazy?" the woman cried, clinging to his arm. "You can't escape! Everyone who's tried since I've been here has died. There's traps everywhere!"

The mercenary winked at her. "I'm not stupid enough to just run. Come on. What do you take me for?"

"Then how…"

"We'll wait until their guard is down before we attack," he continued. "Figure out the guard rotation. There aren't that many guys here. One of them's gonna make a mistake eventually. We just have to be patient."

"We?" Lori asked, her eyes wide.

"Yeah. I'm gonna get you out of here, ok? I promise."

"I…no one's ever offered," she replied softly. "Thank you."

MacCready squeezed her hand gently. Whatever strange twist of fate had brought him here, maybe he was being given another chance. If he could save Lori, maybe... He shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. "Don't mention it," he said. "At least not until we make it out of here. We've got a lot of planning to do."

Lori nodded. "Okay," she murmured. "Just tell me what we need to do."

* * *

Although it was hard to tell the passing of time in the dark cavern, the mercenary had a few tricks to his name from a childhood spent in similar conditions. With Lori's help, he managed to create a clock of sorts from a small depression in the cavern floor and the dripping water from one of the cave's stalactites. It took twenty seconds for a drop to work its way down the spire and fall into the cup. It took about 180 drops to fill the small depression. That meant that the depression would spill over almost once an hour, and they'd empty it with their hands, waiting for the process to begin again. Using this method, MacCready began to time out the guard's visits, the times between meals, everything. It was boring as hell, and a lot to remember, but it worked.

As the hours turned into days, he and his fellow prisoner spent the time chatting. MacCready told Lori stories about his childhood to keep her calm as they plotted their escape. She in turn told him all about her older brother and all the adventures they'd had growing up.

"Karl, my brother..." Lori said softly, leaning against MacCready's shoulder for warmth, "I think he would have liked you. The two of you are a lot alike. He was always so kind."

"Did something happen to him?" MacCready asked, dreading the answer.

She nodded. "Yeah. A couple years ago, he was out hunting with a group of our friends. They were killed, all of them, except one. Him, they left beaten within an inch of his life. From what he was able to tell us before he died, a group of mercenaries were mad that Karl didn't have enough caps to pay their stupid toll or something."

MacCready felt a pang of guilt. It sounded like Gunners again. How many people had his old outfit killed, while he just stood by and did nothing? How many men had he killed for them, never having the courage to say no to his boss's demands? He should never have joined the ruthless mercenaries. That was clear to him now. But how much damage had already been done before he'd walked away?

"I'm sorry to hear that," he managed.

Lori nuzzled against his shoulder, prompting him to wrap an arm around her. She snuggled closely against him, resting her head on his chest. "I know," she replied softly. "It's ok. One of these days, maybe, I'll find the people who killed him."

MacCready brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "And then what?"

"I...I'm not sure," Lori replied. "I'd like to say I'd kill them, or make them suffer. But maybe I'll just ask them why. If the money was really that important, you know?"

The mercenary felt sick to his stomach as he held Lori, the woman who looked and sounded so much like Lucy that it hurt, feeling her tears against his chest as she wept softly. He wanted to tell her that no money was worth another human life, that the men who'd killed her brother were scum, that they deserved to die. But putting a price on human life was his business, had been for as long as he'd been an adult. He had no right to pretend otherwise, to criticize others for the same thing he'd been doing for years. "I'm sorry," he said softly, stroking her hair. "I'm so, so sorry." It was all he could do.

They sat like that for what felt like hours before Lori finally pulled away, wiping her tears on the tattered rags she called a shirt. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I shouldn't have put all that on you."

"It's fine," MacCready responded, helping her to her feet. "Trust me, I've been through worse. I told you about my friend Deacon, right?"

She nodded. "The guy with the sunglasses. Yeah."

"Well, did I ever tell you about the time he got stuck up in a tree, and I had to help get him down because he couldn't figure it out?" He frowned, thinking back to the last conversation that they shared. "He...he was just messing with me about the whole being a cat thing. He had to have been, right? There's no way."

Lori giggled softly. "Sounds like he's a real character."

"He is. When we get out of here, I'll have to make sure you meet him."

"I'd like that," she replied, squeezing his hand. "I want to meet all your friends."

"Well, good news is there's not that many," he replied with a smile. "So it wouldn't take long. I guess we could-"

"Water's spilled again!" Lori whispered, interrupting his thought. MacCready nodded, taking a deep breath. It was almost dinnertime. Soon, they'd move to the next phase of the plan.

"You remember the plan, right?" he asked softly. "We have to time this just right. If we mess up, we probably won't get another shot."

Lori nodded. "Let's get out of here."

After a few minutes, their window of opportunity came. The door groaned as the guard eased it open, setting a tray of what might be considered food inside.

MacCready nodded at Lori, who began to scream.

"He stabbed me! Oh, God, there's blood everywhere!"

The guard froze, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkness. "You messin' with me?" he barked.

"No! I...Ahh! It hurts! Please!"

The guard turned his head slightly, yelling behind him. "Hey! We've got a problem down here!"

"Then handle it!" Shouted a reply. "I'm on break!"

The guard sighed. "Fine…" he muttered under his breath, easing the door open further. "Fuck me for wanting backup. I-"

That was all MacCready needed. He was on the man like a flash, dragging him inside. As the guard stumbled into the cavern with a cry of alarm, MacCready grabbed the cafeteria tray, driving the blunt metal edge of it against the man's throat as he tumbled backwards, crushing his windpipe between the tray and the cold, unforgiving floor.

Lori screamed, for real this time, as the man gasped and gurgled, his throat destroyed. She knelt next to the man, watching the life drain from his eyes, too horrified to look away. "You killed him!" she cried. "You really…"

MacCready nodded. "I'm sorry...but I'm probably going to have to kill the rest of them, too. Otherwise, they'll come after us, and we can't risk that. Not when we don't know where we are or how to get out. Are you...are you going to be ok with that?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide. "I...I guess I don't have a choice, right?"

"Well, you could stay here, if you want," he replied checking the man's body for anything useful. A knife, the keys, a small pistol...he sighed, offering Lori the knife, which she took gingerly.

"No. I'm safer with you. Just…" she looked down at the man, shuddering. "I hate this place. It wasn't so bad, back on the farm. It was warm, and safe, and I never had to hurt anyone."

"Well, let's get you back home," MacCready offered. "Then you can put this whole mess behind you."

Lori nodded. "Yeah. Let's go. Just be careful. I'm pretty sure this passageway is mined or something."

MacCready leaned out into the passage, checking the floor carefully. Sure enough, there were tripwires aplenty. Great. "Well," he said calmly, "I hope you're not a klutz."

Lori smirked. "Try to keep up, okay?"

With that, they crept out of the room and into a long, rocky passage that slowly wound upward, hopefully towards freedom.


	6. The Grave

**6\. The Grave**

_Deacon and Myra continue searching for MacCready, meeting an unexpected ally along the way._

**_*WARNING! This chapter's kinda gross, so don't read it if you are eating, have a weak stomach, or don't like blood and guts. It is sort of important to the quest to save MacCready, though, so don't skip it unless you have to. I tried too keep it as clean as possible while still getting my point _**_**across.***_

* * *

Almost a week had passed since MacCready had gone missing, and Deacon and Whisper were no closer to finding him. Forest Grove Marsh had been a bust. The only traces they'd found there were a few muddy footprints - both human and brahmin- and a severed piece of old rope that may have connected a boat to the riverbank. Hoping this was a lead, the two Railroad agents had continued following the river South, looking for a port of some kind.

About halfway between the marsh and the WRVR radio tower, they located a large drainage pipe that seemed to run under the old highway. It was dented into an unusual shape like the mouth of a hungry animal, partially overgrown with hanging moss. But there had clearly been traffic both in and out of the pipe recently. The vegetation had been worn thin in places, a muddy trail leading into the drain.

"What do you think, Deeks?" asked Whisper.

"I'm not sure. It's worth checking out." Deacon sighed, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. He wasn't sure what was more exhausting, all the walking, or the constant, nagging worry that they were running out of time. "We haven't had a solid lead in days. At least this is better than nothing."

Whisper smiled gently at the spy, looping her hand through his. "I know you're worried, Deacon. I am too. But we're going to find him. I promise."

"Pfff. You think I'm worried?" Deacon muttered, squeezing her hand. He wanted to pull away, to reject her touch, but at this point, the warmth of her hand was one of the only things keeping him calm. "I'm just hoping this place has a mini-bar. What do you think? Wanna split an overpriced can of peanuts with me?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Goof around all you want. I know you care about him. Otherwise we wouldn't be out here looking."

"It's not like that," Deacon retorted. "It's business. You know how few people I actually enjoy working with? It's a pretty short list. MacCready, you, sometimes Glory...I'm not exactly a team player, Whisp, if you haven't noticed."

"Aww, you actually like working with me?" Whisper said with a smirk, her emerald eyes sparkling. She looked like a crow who'd just found something shiny. "That's so sweet, Deacon. Next, you'll be asking me to go steady."

"Stop," he protested, grinning. "You're making this weird again."

"Yeah," she said, giving his hand a final squeeze before releasing it, "but I made you smile."

"Yeah," he replied. "Thanks."

"What are partners for, hmm?" she asked. "Now, who wants to do the honors? I nominate you."

Deacon sighed. "Awesome. I get first crack at the disgusting tunnel to Nastyburgh. It's just what I always wanted! How did you know?"

Whisper rolled her eyes. "Just...just get in the pipe, Deacon."

As Deacon approached the outflow drain, however, he heard what sounded like a footfall against the metallic pipe. He paused, glancing suspiciously around the swampy riverbank for any sign of the kidnappers.

"What is it?" Whisper asked softly, falling in behind him.

"Didn't you hear that?" the spy replied. "Someone's nearby."

She frowned. "I didn't hear anything, besides you trying to get out of going first, Deacon. Not unless you count the water trickling from the pipe. And besides, if the kidnappers are here, isn't that a good thing?"

The spy shook his head. "Shh. No. It's something else, I think. They aren't making enough noise to be our guys." He crept towards the tunnel, slowly withdrawing a kitchen knife from his pack. Without a clear visual or any indication of how many others were present, he didn't want to risk the noise a gun would cause.

Whisper drew her own blade in silent agreement, and the two of them quietly moved into position, flanking the tunnel entrance. Deacon smiled. Her stealth was already starting to improve from the last time they'd run a mission together. Excellent. He'd make a capable agent of her yet.

The quiet footfalls continued, drawing closer, and Deacon glanced over at Whisper. She was gripping her blade tightly, her emerald eyes laser-focused on the darkness beyond the pipe's twisted maw. She looked like a cat, coiled to spring at the first sign of her prey. Her muscles were wound tightly under her combat armor - the parts she'd decided to wear, at least. Deacon imagined that her current outfit was a bit of a compromise with Paladin Danse. Whisper had left the chest piece at home, but retained the heavy padding on her arms and legs. It was for the best. Heavy armor wasn't the easiest thing to sneak around in, even if it had the advantage of increased protection.

As the footsteps grew louder, Deacon braced himself. Any second now, he'd be able to...now! He sprang at the emerging figure, grabbing the newcomer by the lapel and hauling him out into the sunlight.

"Hey!" cried his quarry, falling into the thick slime of the swampy bank with a sickening splat, his hat landing a few feet away in the mud. "What's the big idea?"

Deacon winced as he recognized the voice. Nick Valentine. He was in for it now.

Whisper gasped in alarm, rushing to help the detective up. "Nick?" Whisper asked. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing, doll," the synth detective replied sardonically, wiping muck from his faded trench coat. "Sewer tunnels are no place for a lady. 'Course, given your present company, I'm not surprised." He glared over at Deacon, yellow eyes unimpressed. "Always had you pegged for a sewer rat, pal. Certainly suits you better than a guard uniform."

"Sorry, Nick," Deacon muttered. "To be fair, I had no way of knowing it was you."

"So you just make a habit of tossing strangers into the river, then," Nick muttered. "Well, takes all kinds, I suppose. Still, you haven't answered my question. What brings the two of you to this miserable pit of filth?"

"We're looking for our friend, MacCready," Whisper replied, retrieving Nick's hat and handing it to him. "Some guys kidnapped him. Snatched him right out of my house. We're trying to find him."

Nick frowned, brushing the muck away as best as he could before returning the fedora to his head. "A missing merc, huh? Well, that's not the standard MO, but if it brought you here, it might be connected to my case."

Whisper smirked. "So you're not just here for fun either."

Nick shook his head. "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation, if that's what you're implying. See, I've been working on some disappearances myself. Bunch of young women. Though I suppose your shady friend over there doesn't know anything about that, does he?"

Deacon sighed. "I should have figured the Railroad wouldn't be the only ones investigating this."

Nick glanced over Deacon solemnly. "So the Railroad is involved. I thought so. But why would you be involved in a missing persons'...oh." Nick sighed. "Well, that changes things. So some of our lost lambs are synths, huh?"

Deacon nodded. "We've lost almost a dozen liberated synths in the last year, all young women, taken from high-traffic areas."

"A dozen?" Nick chuckled bitterly. "Pal, that's just the tip of the iceberg. I've got over twenty files on my desk right now with the same damn prints all over them. Whatever's going on here, it's way bigger than you realize."

Whisper groaned. "So this probably wasn't about synths at all. Great. We've been looking at it all wrong. Whoever's doing this is after young women in general."

"If that's true," Nick pondered, "then why take MacCready? It doesn't add up."

"That...that might be my fault," Deacon muttered sheepishly. "I'll admit, I was a little sloppy on this one. I found and confronted one of those kidnapping ass clowns, and he might have decided to get revenge. Mac and I spent most of the day before he vanished hanging out at Myra's house. He must have seen us together."

Nick sighed. "So you're shady _and _an idiot. Well, that's a winning combination." He turned to Whisper. "Where'd you pick this guy up, anyway?"

" _The Third Rail _," she replied with a faint smile. "He just seemed so charming at the time."

"Myra, you have got to stop picking up strange men in bars," Nick joked. "Seems like a foolish idea, if you ask me. But what do I know? I'm just the Commonwealth's number one detective specializing in missing persons."

"Well, Nick, so far none of them have tried to kill me," Whisp replied, "so I still have a better track record in the average bar than I do just walking down the street."

Deacon grinned. "You've definitely been hanging out at the wrong bars. It's not a party until someone tries to kill you, you know."

Whisper chuckled. "As a former bartender, I'd like to see them try. That's my natural environment."

Nick grimaced. "If you two are done plotting your next bad decision, I'd like to get back to work. I've only been down the pipe a little ways. Would have gotten further, but I heard you two jackasses and figured I'd make sure I wasn't getting ambushed. You can come with, if you must, but I'd appreciate it if you laid off the banter. Who knows what's waiting down there?"

Deacon rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Typical. "Hopefully, a particularly angry little mercenary. Let's go."

The trio made their way down the dark, dank pipe, the smell of old moss and rotten leaves filling their noses. Whisper slipped on the slimy metal, muffling her shriek with one hand as she frantically grabbed on to Deacon with the other. Deacon braced himself as best as he could, pulling her tightly against the pipe wall to slow her momentum. Whisper coiled her arm around him, struggling to regain her footing.

"Thanks," she gasped, breathless. They were almost face to face, her back pressed against the wall, pinned there by his body weight. They stared at each other in the half-light, Whisper's eyes wide from adrenaline, her chest heaving as she tried to calm her breathing down. Her back was damp from the ooze that coated the wall, greenish streaks of algae dying her short white hair. But she was lovely, all the same, her lips parted slightly as she recovered herself.

Deacon wasn't sure how long they stood like that. It felt like minutes, but it was probably less. He was brought back to the task at hand by Nick, who cleared his throat behind them. "I'd give you two some privacy," the detective muttered sardonically, "but you're blocking the exit. Can we go, now?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Deacon looked away from Whisper with an exasperated sigh, pushing himself off the wall. "Be careful Myra," he admonished. "If you crack your skull open, I'm sure as hell not going to clean it up."

"Noted," Whisper replied, tucking her slime-slicked hair behind one reddened ear.

They continued on without much incident, each watching their footing on the slick metal. Before long, they came to a hatch, which Nick eased open, revealing a small room. There were three entrances to the room: the one they now darkened, a filthy metal door with " _The Grave _" painted on it in what Deacon hoped wasn't blood, and a warped wooden door with an uneven trail of what definitely was blood leading to it.

There wasn't much in the room itself. A single chair sat next to a makeshift table, upon which was perched a half-consumed bottle of Gwinnett Ale. Whisper picked up the bottle by the neck with two fingers and her thumb, sloshing the contents around carefully. "It's flat," she muttered. "Poor beer's been sitting out for at least a day or two. What a waste."

"We'll hold a Viking funeral for it later," Deacon joked. "We'll have a little fire by the river, I'll bring a charcuterie board, it'll be a whole thing. Find anything else?"

Whisper snorted. "You mean like the obvious trail of blood leading behind that door over there? No. I hadn't noticed that."

Nick sighed, shaking his head. "You know, if all it took to solve cases was a smart mouth, you two would have found MacCready by now." He followed the trail of blood, pulling the stained wooden door open carefully. He grimaced at the sight. "Looks like your beer's not the only one in need of a funeral."

Deacon peered over the detective's shoulder, whistling in awe. "Damn. Guess I wasn't the only one with finely sliced meats on the brain." Beyond the door lay the body of a large raider, soaking in a puddle of his own congealed blood. He wasn't certain what had actually done the man in. There were several deep knife cuts across his body, as well as a few well-positioned bullet holes. Whoever had done this had been pretty desperate.

"I think we can rule out suicide," Nick said. "He was clearly guarding something. Question is, what was he guarding?"

"And hopefully a related question," Whisper added, "who killed him?"

"Only one way to find out," Deacon replied, pulling open the metal door on the other side of the small room. "Hopefully this isn't a _grave _mistake."

Whisper swatted playfully at him. "The only mistake was bringing you along," she snarked. Then she walked past him, turning her Pip-Boy's flashlight on as she entered a dark, musty tunnel.

"Watch out!" cried Nick, yanking her back with his good arm. "Look around you before you charge in, doll! Geez. It's a miracle you're still kicking. This whole place is full of tripwires. We'll have to disable them one by one."

Whisper nodded. "Thanks, Nick. Let's go."

It was slow progress as the three of them worked down the tunnel. They were forced to stop every few feet to disarm a trap or two. By the fourth delay, Deacon sighed in frustration. Usually, he preferred the slow and safe method. But if anything happened to Mac because they weren't fast enough to save him, the spy would never forgive himself.

Finally, they reached a rusty metal door which hung slightly ajar, revealing a large cavern beyond. Whisper stepped through carefully, using her light to illuminate the chamber. She cried in horror as the green glow revealed another body near the door. The man's neck was all but destroyed, his eyes bulging in torment from his blue-tinged face. A battered old cafeteria tray lay next to him, stained with rotten food and bile. Whisper backed away, her skin pale.

"He's dead too, right?" she asked softly as Deacon knelt by the body. The man wasn't clothed in anything particularly special, a set of patched old leather armor worn loosely over threadbare long johns. There was an empty holster by his side, a few unused bullets strewn about the body as though he was looted hastily.

The spy nodded, pocketing the ammunition. "Yeah. Looks like he has been for a couple days. Body's been looted too. Whoever was here, they're long gone now."

"Do you think it was Mac?" Whisper mused, continuing to search the room.

"Could be," Deacon replied. "I've never seen him fight with a cafeteria tray before, though. I'll have to ask him where he learned that trick."

"Your merc was definitely here," Nick said, holding out his bare metal arm. Caught between his sharp fingers was MacCready's military cap, wet and filthy, but still recognizable. Whisper snatched the cap from the detective's hand with a low cry.

"That's his, all right. Mac must have taken off in a hurry if he left this behind," she mused.

Deacon nodded as she tucked the cap in her back. "The way he wears that hat, you'd think someone wonderglued it to his head. Actually, that's not a half-bad idea…"

Whisper groaned. "Well, at least we know we're on the right track. The question is, why was he here?"

Deacon glanced around the cavern. "This place seem kind of...I don't know, a bit of a let-down? All those traps for one little prison cell? Come on, it's not like Mac's the president or something. There's gotta be more down here."

Nick nodded. "We still have no idea what this place is. And with the number of missing people, it's unlikely that a place this small could keep up with that kind of traffic."

Whisper frowned. "I agree, but look. This is a dead end. There weren't any other doors. Unless you guys see something I don't…"

Deacon smirked, tapping gently on the cavern walls. "I'll bet there's a hidden door somewhere. From my experience, your pre-war government loved them some fake walls and secret entrances. You guys were absolutely paranoid, weren't you?"

Whisper chuckled. "Hey, now. You're one to talk."

"Besides," Nick added, "those damn commies had stealth technology. It wasn't exactly an understatement to say that they could be hiding anywhere. We had to be careful."

"I think you're just upset because I hit the nail on the head," Deacon replied. He grinned as his tapping revealed a hollow part of the wall. "Bingo. Hey, Whisper, a little light over here would be great."

Whisp held her arm out towards him, the eerie green glow illuminating the cavern wall. Deacon ran his hands over the slick surface, looking for a latch, a chain, anything. Finally, he found a small, smooth groove behind one of the outcroppings. When he slid his hand into place and pulled, a section of the cavern wall lifted with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a well-lit room beyond.

"Whoa," Whisper gasped. "How the hell did you know that was there?"

"Call it a hunch," Deacon replied. "This place felt a little Switchboard-y to me. Now, what sort of government agency do you think built this place, huh?"

"Honestly," Whisper said, "It could have been anyone. FBI, CIA, FDA...well, ok, probably not the FDA. But I always had a feeling those sons of bitches were hiding something."

Nick sighed. "Just when you thought the Commonwealth had finally run out of secrets," he muttered, stepping through the opening into the room beyond. "Well, this is quaint. Come take a look."

They followed him into the room, and Deacon glanced around in awe. The facility was some sort of science outpost, that was obvious from the microscopes and other equipment scattered about the chamber, not to mention the sterile fluorescent lights that still shown in the lab. But what really caught him off-guard was the two-way mirror that looked out over the cavern. Whoever had been here had been watching the cave. But for what purpose?

Nick looked through a stack of old papers. "Lab reports...huh. I can't make sense of any of this. What were they doing down here?"

Deacon found an old monitor, fiddling with it for a while as he tried to break through its password. "Buffalo...no, that's not it," he mumbled. "Jukebox?...nope. What about...gizzard?"

Whisper sniffed at the air, wrinkling her nose. "Does something smell...less-than-fresh to you guys?" She wandered towards a sliding door on the left side of the small lab. "I think it's coming from over here." The two men ignored her, continuing to sift through the pre-war data, so she slid the door open, wandering inside the next room. "There's a whole bedroom in here," Whisper said, peering back at the two men from the doorway. "Pretty decent-looking, too, given how old this place has to be. It stinks, though."

Deacon gave up his hacking and joined her in the next room. Sure enough, the place was set up like a luxury suite, with a nice double bed and sheets that were almost clean, certainly cleaner than any he'd seen in the wasteland. But Whisper was right. The whole place smelled like old meat and iron, sweet corruption reeking from somewhere in the room. He poked around until he traced the smell to a small air vent next to a frosted glass door. "Whatever smells so bad, it's in there," he deducted.

Whisp nodded. "Yeah. I was afraid of that. Should we open it?"

"I guess we don't really have a choice, right Nick?" Deacon asked as the detective entered the room.

Nick nodded. "We need to do a thorough investigation. Anything, no matter how small, might help us find our missing girls."

"Fine…" Whisper groaned, easing the door open. She and Deacon reeled back as the stench flooded the bedroom, a putrid rot. "What the hell?" she cried, gagging. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you thought it was a bathtub full of blood," Deacon said, "you'd be absolutely right. Gross! That can't be good for the tub."

"I'm more and more convinced that this place is bad news," Nick said, pushing past them into the bathroom. "Look, there's tanks of the stuff, just waiting to be changed out. Whoever did this definitely made a habit out of bathing in blood. All I can't figure out is why? Seems like a lot of effort for such an unpleasant sensation."

Deacon frowned, kicking at one of the blood tanks. "Well, either they were completely crazy or way into black magic. Either way, this place is creepy as hell. Shall we move on?"

"Sure," Whisper said sarcastically. "Can't get much more disturbing than this, right? What's next, flesh piles? Oh, gee, I hope it's not zombies!"

Nick's eyes narrowed. "Myra, you live in a world where ghouls exist. You really should be used to zombies by now."

"Onward, to zombies!" Deacon cried, his arm raised dramatically as he strode back out into the lab. "But if we get haunted after this, MacCready totally owes us."

"Agreed," said Whisper.

"Why, of all the people for me to run into out here, did it have to be you two chuckleheads?" Nick groaned, following them.

* * *

The facility turned out to be far larger than any of them could have imagined, a hive of interconnecting rooms that spread from the central lab like roots from a tree trunk. Most of the chambers were quite mundane: barracks, a kitchen and cafeteria, a gym...it all seemed almost vault-like, except for the distinct lack of signage and cheery posters. Many of the rooms were inaccessible. A cave-in had buried a large portion of the west wing, whereas others simply could not be opened. It was unclear how long those areas had been blocked off, but it was unlikely that MacCready had been in the facility when the collapse had occurred.

After what seemed like hours, the trio found themselves in what appeared to be a clinic. By Deacon's estimation, they were at least three stories down from where they had started. He tried not to think about the possibility of another cave-in.

The clinic was tidy and well-kept, except for some suspiciously dark stains on the old linoleum floor. A single gurney occupied the center of the room, a large lamp positioned over it. Scalpels, needles of Med-X, and other surgical implements lay neatly on a dented old metal tray nearby. The rest of the room was bare, save for a large wooden desk and worn desk chair that took up a good portion of the right wall. The desk was covered in papers, a few pieces of charcoal scattered between the leaves. The left wall housed a large fusion generator, which whirred and hummed with power, vibrating the floor slightly.

The back wall was bare, a single metal door marring it's off-white surface. Nick frowned, fiddling with the lock. "This is interesting. Nothing else in this place has been locked...aha!" he added as the lock clicked into place. "Let's see what they're hiding down here."

As he opened the door, the reek of rotten flesh assailed them, and Deacon and Whisper both collapsed to the ground, hacking and coughing at the stench.

"That's it! I'm never eating meat again after this trip!" Whisper exclaimed, wiping traces of vomit from her lips with the back of her sleeve.

"And I was...ugh...really looking forward to that charcuterie board, too," Deacon managed, choking back his own bile.

"I think we've found out what happened to all those girls," Nick muttered, his eyes sweeping the room. The small space was filled with bodies in various states of decay. Some were mostly intact. Others had their skin ripped away, revealing bone, sinew, and rotting flesh. All of them had been drained of their blood.

"Well, I guess that explains where the tanks of blood came from," Whisper gagged. "Are we dealing with vampires here? Please tell me vampires haven't become a thing. Zombies, that was bad enough. Mutants? Okay, not my favorite, but reasonable. I am absolutely not prepared to deal with vampires, though."

Nick shook his head. "Vampires? Not as far as I'm aware, though who knows what the Institute's been cooking up these days. I'm afraid the reality's a little less storybook than that, Myra. Look at this equipment."

Deacon nodded. "You're right, Nick. These surgical tools, those old monitors...someone was trying to do facial reconstruction here."

"But why kill all these people? Most surgeons don't leave piles of bodies in their storage room, right?"

"Not unless they were really terrible at their job, or trying to recreate something very specific," Deacon muttered, sorting through the loose papers on the desk. "It's easy enough to tweak a nose here, remove some scars there...that can usually be done with the patient's own skin. But something complicated, like making a specific face, that requires a donation. Willing, usually. In this case, though, I'd guess it was very unwilling."

"So what you're saying is that you've had this sort of work done before," Nick said coldly.

"Yeah, but I promise I never murdered anyone for a new face," the spy rebutted. "Certainly not this many people. My guy gets all his parts from people who were already dead, asks their families first and everything. It's gross, but legitimate. Someone needs to find this surgeon and talk to him about ethically sourcing his materials."

"Um, Deacon...exactly how much of you is dead person?" Whisp asked cautiously. "I mean, there's no percentage small enough, if you ask me, but -"

"Aha!" Deacon interrupted, definitely not trying to avoid that conversation. He held up a carefully-drawn sketch of a young woman, her face soft and warm. There was an innocent quality to her smile that intrigued him. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't the typical wastelander, hardened by life into a ruthless fighter. There was genuine softness in her eyes. Red dashes segmented her face into sections, marring the sketch like stitches on old skin.

"Who's that?" Nick asked.

"I'm not sure," Deacon replied. "One of our missing girls?"

"Turn it over, Deeks," Whisper said. "There's something written on the back, but your fingers are covering it."

Deacon did as she instructed, and his eyes widened as he read the words out loud. " _If I can't kill Lucy, I will become her. _Well, that's..." He loosened his grip on the paper and it fluttered to the floor like a dying bird.

"What's that mean, Deacon?" Whisper asked. "Who's Lucy?"

The spy stared off towards the storage room, towards the bodies of lost and stolen women that waited there. "I don't think this was ever about me, after all," he managed. "Whatever's happening here...It's about MacCready. And if I'm right, then he's in even more danger than we thought."


	7. The Stillness of Waiting

**7\. The Stillness of Waiting**

_As Danse finally begins to regain his strength, he receives an unexpected visitor._

* * *

"Easy, now," Ignatius chided as Paladin Danse struggled to get out of bed. The doctor reached out for his patient, offering the wounded soldier his arm, but Danse waved him off.

"No," Danse remarked, groaning in pain as he drew himself to his full height. "I need to do this on my own, or my recovery may be delayed. I cannot afford to rely on crutches if we find ourselves in battle. I have to be able to stand on my own before I can use my power armor."

The doctor sighed. "Fine, but at least use the walking stick for now," he muttered, handing Danse a length of twisted wood. "If you can get around using just this today, then we can talk about getting you back in armor."

Danse grimaced in displeasure. "If we were using conventional medicine, I would already be back in fighting form, doctor."

The bear-like physician shook his head, smiling slightly. "If we were using conventional medicine, Paladin, you would also be fighting one hell of a chem addiction by now. I know my methods are slower, but I refuse to sacrifice your overall health for a quick fix. Surely you understand that."

"Affirmative," Danse sighed, accepting the walking stick. "My apologies, doctor. I am merely having difficulty adjusting to my circumstances. I realize that it is not your fault."

Ignatius eased the bedroom door open, escorting Danse from the room. The Paladin hobbled into the hall. It was slower than he was comfortable with, but he had to admit that it felt good walking on his own. He made his way to the little breakfast nook next to Myra's kitchen, easing himself down in one of the chairs. He winced as his body bent into a seated position. The pillows that Ignatius had used to ease the Paladin's transition to sitting early on in his recovery had been removed now, and the hard seat was both uncomfortable and satisfyingly familiar. Things were finally getting back on track, at least.

The doctor set a chipped yellow plate in front of Danse, and the Paladin smiled as the scent of meat and eggs filled his nostrils. One of Marcy Long's famous double meat omelettes steamed on the plate, a welcome change from gruel.

"It's high time we started getting you some protein," Ignatius said. "But, Danse, please take your time. Your stomach isn't used to solid food any more, and if you eat too fast, you'll make yourself sick."

"Understood," Danse said, sitting quietly without touching his meal.

"Um...Danse?" asked Ignatius, "Are you okay?"

Danse stared at the doctor in confusion. "I'm fine. Why?"

"Just...you can eat now. You don't have to wait for it to cool down like the gruel."

Danse blushed slightly as he realized what he was doing. He'd gotten so used to eating every day with Myra that he'd instinctively started waiting for her to finish praying before starting his meal. He felt a twinge in his heart when he thought of her. Was she all right? Had she and Deacon found MacCready? Most importantly, when was she coming back? He closed his eyes, bowing his head for a moment. The Paladin wasn't a particularly religious man, but he hoped that whoever was out there listening wouldn't care about trivial things like that. If Myra's god was there, he figured a simple request wouldn't hurt. "Please," he whispered under his breath, "please keep Myra safe." Danse's blush deepened. He felt so foolish, talking to himself like that. How did Myra do it every day? Even still, he had to admit there was something comforting about directing his intentions somewhere, instead of just worrying. Perhaps that was the real value of such an exercise.

The omelette was buttery and flavorful, and it took most of Danse's self-control to eat slowly. He wasn't certain if the dish was really that good or if he'd just been starved for flavor, but he could have sworn that it was the best thing he'd ever eaten. Somehow, he managed to avoid wolfing the entire thing down in a matter of seconds, however. Ignatius rewarded his restraint with an approving smile.

Once breakfast was over, the two men headed for Myra's backyard, where Renata was already waiting. The girl stood by the half-destroyed picket fence, an overripe tato in her hand. Several similar fruits had already been placed on the remaining fence posts, clear juice and seeds oozing down the once-white planks. Ren waved at Danse enthusiastically as he hobbled over to her.

"Mr. Danse!" she chirped. "Look! I got the tatos ready!"

"I see that," Danse replied, gently ruffling the girl's soft brown hair. "Outstanding work, Renata."

"And here's your gun!" she continued, grunting with effort as she handed Danse the heavy laser rifle. He frowned as he took the weapon from her, eyeing it critically.

"Renata," he said sternly, "did you repaint my weapon?"

The girl nodded, her blue eyes meeting his. "Yeah! It's a present! Do you like it?"

Danse sighed as he looked over the rifle. It was a bright pastel blue, a sloppy child's rendering of the Brotherhood of Steel logo shining in sunny yellow on each side of the barrel. It was an absolute abomination, and he groaned inwardly as he thought about how difficult it would be to restore the original paint job.

"Thank you," he managed, trying not to show her his disappointment. She was just a child, after all, and in spite of his revulsion, he knew that she had meant it as a kind gesture. "I can tell that you worked very hard on it."

Ren nodded. "Mr. Sturges helped."

Danse made a mental note to kill Sturges once the mechanic was done refurbishing the replacement T-60 suit for him. Did the minuteman really think he could get away with this? The Paladin sighed, readying his weapon. "Stand back, Renata," he said, aiming carefully at one of the targets she'd made.

His hands were still unacceptably shaky, he realized with a frown, cursing under his breath. It was bad enough that he'd likely be badly scarred for the rest of his life. But if he couldn't even shoot straight, what good was he to anyone? How could he fight the Brotherhood's enemies? How could he protect Myra? He fired at his target, growling as his shot went wide.

"Let me help you," Ignatius said, walking up behind him. Danse shuddered as the doctor wrapped his arms around him, bracing Danse's weakened limbs with his own. "Remember," he continued softly, "you have to be patient with your body, Paladin. It will take a while for your strength to return. You almost died, in case you've forgotten."

Danse frowned as he felt the warmth of the other man's body against his. It frustrated him that Ignatius didn't seem to realize how demeaning it was, being treated like a squire learning to shoot for the first time. Still, with the doctor's help, he managed to aim smoother. Danse fired off another round, this time striking the tato from its perch with a sizzle.

"See?" Ignatius said in his ear. "You've still got what it takes, Danse. You just need to give your muscles time to recover."

"Again," the Paladin growled, selecting another target.

The doctor chuckled. "Of course. This is an important part of getting you back on your feet, after all."

One by one, the over-ripe fruits fell from the fence, and with each one slain, Danse's confidence grew a little. He soon forgot all about Ignatius' presence, reveling in the feeling of holding a gun again. It would take time, but he would be able to continue his duties unassisted eventually. The worst of it, finally, was over.

* * *

Late afternoon found Danse under the large tree in the center of town, a book balanced on his knees. It was one of Myra's, miraculously preserved in her bedside table. He'd run out of manuals to read by the third day of his recovery, so in boredom and desperation, the Paladin had decided to give Myra's novel, "_The Gates of Destruction," _a try.

He had to admit that he was enjoying the story so far. It wasn't bad, for fiction. In fact, he rather liked the protagonist, a thief named Elara Jerick. While she was certainly a criminal, Danse had to admit that there was a nobility to her actions, especially as she tried to help the true ruler of her country save the world after she made a promise to his dying father. Her stubbornness and refusal to accept defeat reminded him a little of Myra, he thought. He turned the page, greedily devouring the story. If all books were like this, he admitted to himself, perhaps he had been missing out.

"What's this?" a familiar voice called, interrupting his reading. "Danse, reading a novel? What has Larimer done to you?"

The Paladin looked up, startled, his eyes meeting amused steely blue. Arthur leaned casually against the tree, watching him. The young Elder was almost unrecognizable without his greatcoat, dressed simply in a pair of brown cargo pants and a worn grey shirt. In all their years together, Danse couldn't recall ever seeing Maxson out of uniform before. He looked younger, closer to his twenty years than he did normally. Sometimes, it was easy for Danse to forget how young Arthur really was. It was jarring, seeing the Elder without his mantle of command.

"Arthur!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? It's not safe for you to be out in the Commonwealth by yourself! You aren't even wearing any armor."

"Quiet!" Maxson hissed. "Unless you want everyone to know I'm here. If you must know, I came to see how your recovery was coming along. From what Knight Larimer told me, it seems like you nearly died."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Danse replied. "But I assure you, I'll be back to optimal performance soon."

"That's excellent news," the Elder said, reaching into his pack and withdrawing a small package wrapped in striped cloth. "I ran into Scribe Haylen as I was leaving the _Prydwen _," he explained, offering the bundle to Danse, "and she insisted that I bring you this."

Danse chuckled as he unwrapped the package. As he opened the box, the sickly sweet smell of Rhys' homemade corn and tarberry cakes filled the air. Also included was a short note, which he read quickly.

_Sir,_

_Please get better soon! I know it's not much, but Rhys and I want you to know we're thinking of you. Share these with Larimer, if you want. I promise I won't tell Rhys!_

_Ad Victoriam!_

_Haylen_

The Paladin picked up one of the lumpy sweets, eyeing it carefully before taking a small bite. It was kind of his old squad to think of him, even if he wished that Rhys would realize that he wasn't that competent of a chef. The cakes were surprisingly palatable, at least, so he offered one to Maxson.

"Did Knight Rhys bake these?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

Danse nodded. "They're really not that bad, actually. Maybe he's learning."

"Still, I'm afraid I can't afford the food poisoning right now," the Elder said, shaking his head. "Come to think of it, neither can you. Perhaps I should take those away for your own safety," he added, reaching for the box.

The Paladin shook his head, moving the cakes to his other side. "It was a gift, Arthur. I'm not just going to throw them away."

"Fine, Danse," the Elder replied. "But don't make yourself sick."

Danse nodded, closing the box. "I'm not about to do anything that would impede my recovery. It's been difficult enough. At least I'm through the worst of it now."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to come visit," Arthur said, something akin to guilt on his face. "I'm sure you realize that I took the first opportunity to come that I could."

"Affirmative," the Paladin replied. "I understand how busy you are, Arthur. If I'm being honest, I didn't expect you to visit me at all. I figured we'd reunite once Larimer and I got back from our next mission."

"I'll admit, Danse, I have my doubts about Larimer's plan for this next mission," Maxson said gruffly. "Do you really think it's wise to go charging into the Glowing Sea of all places after a fugitive who may or may not even be there? I can't help feeling like I'm sending two of my best people on a suicide mission."

Danse sighed. "If the information that fugitive possessed was any less valuable, I'd agree with you. But the fact remains that Brian Virgil is the first credible lead we've found. You and I both know that we have to find the Institute if we're to have any hope of defeating them. Yes, it's a risk, but you should know me well enough by now to know that it's a risk I'll gladly take if it means that ensuring victory for the Brotherhood."

"Of course," Arthur replied. "I've never doubted your resolve, Danse. I just wish there was another way."

"As do I, Arthur. But if it meant that we would have a chance to strike at the heart of the Institute, I'd gladly wade through the flames of hell itself."

"From what I've heard, conditions in the Glowing Sea aren't that far off. Are you certain that you and Larimer are up to the task?" Maxson held up a hand as Danse began to protest. "I'm not questioning your abilities, Danse. I'm only asking because you both are still recovering from serious injuries. If you need me to send another team in your place, I've already got a squad on standby."

Danse shook his head. "That won't be necessary. Once Larimer gets back, we'll begin preparing for the journey."

"When she gets back?" Maxson growled, his eyes narrowing. "Larimer assured me that she wasn't going to leave your side. That's the whole reason I agreed to her ludicrous plan of having you recover here in Sanctuary, rather than under Cade's supervision! And you're telling me she left you here?"

"Arthur, I promise that it wasn't her intention to leave me behind," the Paladin retorted. "Her mercenary friend, MacCready, went missing last week. She left to go find him, and understandably, she didn't ask me to come along. Besides, it's not as if she left me alone. There's a perfectly capable doctor looking after me."

Arthur frowned. "I highly doubt he's giving you the sort of care Cade could, Danse. Look at you. You can barely…" The Elder's voice trailed off as he looked over the Paladin with worried eyes. "Are you certain that you're recovering well? Are you eating enough? I know how you can be when you're injured."

Danse smiled gently at his friend. "Arthur. Calm down. Look, I'm…" he groaned as he stood up, leaning on his walking stick, "I'm walking on my own already. Doctor Ignatius assures me that I'll make a full recovery soon."

"All the same," Maxson continued, walking alongside the Paladin as he made his way back towards Myra's house, "Larimer should not have left you. Wasn't there anyone else she could have sent to find MacCready?"

Danse shook his head. "That's not how Myra operates, Arthur. When someone she cares about is in trouble, she brushes everything else aside. She won't even think about anything else until MacCready's safe. That's simply how she is."

Arthur cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him. "So it's Myra now?" he mused.

Danse blushed slightly, clearing his throat. How could he have been so careless? "A slip of the tongue," he amended. "I'm afraid that I've been among civilians too long, Arthur. I've gotten used to hearing them use familiar terms with Knight Larimer."

"Is that all?" Maxson mused. Still, he didn't pry further, a small mercy which Danse appreciated. "I suppose Larimer at least had the foresight to take backup, correct?"

Danse nodded. "She left with one of her other allies, a civilian named Deacon. I can't say I'm fond of the man, but everyone I've talked to who knows him says he'll keep her safe. I wasn't exactly in a position to argue," he added bitterly. "In my present condition, a twelve-year-old with a slingshot would be better support than I would be."

Maxson froze just outside Myra's house, frowning. "Deacon. I've heard that name once or twice from Proctor Quinlan...and never in a good context." He looked at the Paladin, his face stony. "Danse, are you certain that Larimer can still be trusted? The company she keeps... it's bad enough that she is the General of the Minutemen. If she's somehow gotten involved in something less benign..."

"Are you questioning Larimer's loyalty, Arthur?" the Paladin asked, his eyes wide. "I'll admit that her behavior is...erratic at best, but when has Larimer ever given you any reason to believe she's disloyal?"

"The better question would be when hasn't she?" the Elder retorted. "I'm sorry, Danse. As you know, I'm quite fond of Knight Larimer myself. Still, you have to understand that the way she refuses to follow the rules is starting to draw the wrong kind of attention. I don't want to think that she's working against us, at least not deliberately. But as Elder, I have to see past my personal feelings. I have to be objective. And Larimer's behavior is admittedly worrying."

"Worrying to the point of treachery?" Danse asked. He knew Arthur was right. Many of the fears the Elder mentioned were echoed in his own gut. The Paladin had been cutting Myra a large amount of slack, had been deliberately trying not to face his doubts about her. After all, most of her behavior could be easily explained away as symptoms of her trauma, the actions of a desperate woman trying to regain some semblance of control over her life. But if she wasn't sincere, if she was working with the Brotherhood's enemies to take them down from the inside, ignoring her behavior could be catastrophic.

"I'm not certain yet," Maxson replied. "I sincerely hope I'm wrong. But given the circumstances, the time for Larimer to be ostensibly a free agent might be drawing to a close. We need to get her under control, before someone else does. Perhaps I made a mistake in not asking her to take the Oath when you first brought her to me."

"Normally, I'd agree," Danse said. "But what about her commitment to the Minutemen? She's their leader, Arthur. And from what I saw at the Castle, they need her. If we ask her to be loyal only to those bound to her by Steel, won't she have to abandon them?"

"It's a difficult decision Danse," Maxson said with a heavy sigh. "Trust me, I've been agonizing over it ever since she left my office last week. Keeping the Minutemen as allies - at least until we defeat the Institute - seems like a wise course of action, and having Larimer continue to lead them would make that alliance easier to weight in our favor. However, such an alliance goes directly against the spirit of the Codex. The Brotherhood of Steel has survived this long because we are cautious and discerning."

"Which is precisely why severing our ties with the Minutemen at this time would be imprudent," the Paladin countered. "We should not try to wage a war on multiple fronts, Arthur. Perhaps it is better that we continue to make an exception for Larimer, given her position as General."

"What good has ever come from making exceptions?" Maxson replied angrily. "Compromise weakens the Brotherhood. Be both saw that under Elder Lyons. At some point, Larimer will have to choose which of the factions in the Commonwealth she's truly willing to support. You're her sponsor. It's your job to make sure that when that time comes, she's prepared to stand with us."

The Paladin thought for a moment. Arthur was completely right, as he usually was. Danse was letting his personal concerns outweigh his judgement, he realized. Myra was...important to him. He wanted to do everything he could to protect her, even from the consequences of her own actions. Whether Danse liked it or not, he was too close to the situation to remain objective. "Very well," the Paladin agreed. "But, Arthur, even if you don't trust Knight Larimer to make the right decision, will you at least trust me to guide her? As you've said, I am her sponsor. Larimer may be a bit of a loose cannon, but she's hardly a lost cause."

Maxson nodded. "And she operates better with a loose hand at the reins. I think we both know that," he said softly. "But we also both know that there's only so much I can do to protect the two of you if she continues to behave like a mercenary and not a Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel. The Council has made that very clear. For all our sakes, Danse, you have got to get her to at least look like she's following proper procedure."

The Elder Council. So that was why Arthur was so fixated on Myra's activities all of a sudden. Danse sighed heavily. The governing body of the Brotherhood had never exactly operated with a light touch when it came to influencing Arthur's choices. While most of the Elders who made up the Council were given free reign over their chapters, Arthur was still treated as a child playing at war by most of them, even as they revered him for his bloodline. As the last Maxson, the seat of High Elder should be Arthur's by right, but there were many members of the Council who would love to see the young Elder fall so they could claim the title. If Arthur's opponents considered the Elder's leniency towards Myra to be a sign of weakness, they could very easily force his hand.

"I'll do everything I can, Arthur," Danse replied. "I promise, I'll never let you down."

The young Elder nodded. "I know you will, Danse. You've always given me your best. That's why I've come to rely on you so much. Now, I'd better get back to the _Prydwen _before I'm missed. I…" The younger man trailed off as his eyes met Danse's again. There was a nervous energy behind those steely eyes that Danse had only rarely seen. It was almost fear, but fear of what Danse couldn't say. After all, there was nothing in the world that frightened Elder Maxson, and only a few things that scared Arthur, the man behind the mantle.

Danse almost asked him what was bothering him, but decided against it. It was better to let Arthur preserve his dignity. Eventually, Maxson cleared his throat, the nervousness fading from his eyes. "I expect a full report when you and Larimer return from the Glowing Sea," the Elder said finally, his voice a little too regimented.

"Affirmative," Danse replied. "Whatever we find, you'll be the first one to know about it."

Maxson nodded simply before heading for the town gate, leaving Danse staring down the road after him until long after he vanished from sight beyond the wall.

* * *

"I'm home!" Myra called, walking through the front door of her house, grinning brightly as she dropped her pack next to the door.

Danse beamed at her from the couch as she sat down next to him, curling her long legs beneath her. "Welcome home," he said softly. "How was your trip? Did you find MacCready?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He's a little scraped up, but he'll be fine. Deacon's with him now. But I don't want to talk about Mac right now, Danse. I want to talk about you. Are you feeling better?"

Danse thought for a moment, patting at his bandaged torso before looking up at her, surprised. "I seem to no longer be in any pain," he replied. "That's quite unusual."

Myra's smile returned, soft and warm. "I'm so happy to hear it. I was really worried about you while I was away, you know?"

"You were?" he asked.

She nodded, scooting closer to him on the couch. "Of course I was. What, did you really think I'd forget about you or something? You know there's no way I'd ever do that."

Danse frowned. She was acting strangely. "Larimer, are you inebriated?"

She shook her head, pressing a finger to his lips. "Shh. Call me Myra, ok? I hate it when you call me Larimer. That's not even my name. It's Nate's, and he's dead."

"I can't do that. It wouldn't be right."

Myra sighed. "Who cares? Damn, it , Danse, you're always so worried about what's right that you can't see what's right in front of you, can you? Just once, please, just put all that aside and do what you want to do."

"But the rules exist for a reason, Larimer," Danse retorted. "Rules keep us safe. I can't just ignore them. I…" he sighed, gently brushing a strand of pure white hair from her face. "I don't know who I would be without them."

Myra flipped one of her legs over his and eased herself into his lap, pinning him to the couch. She laughed quietly as he gazed up at her in shock. "Let's meet that version of you together."

Before he had a chance to question what was happening, her lips were on his, cool and hungry as her arms snaked around the back of his head. It was so hard to think as her body pressed against his, her lips intoxicating as they parted, inviting him to deepen the kiss. With a groan of frustration and desire, he relented, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and pulling her even closer.

"That's it," she gasped against his lips, grinding her body against him. "Finally, you're being honest."

"I'm always honest," he growled. "You're the one who makes everything so damn difficult."

She gasped as he nibbled at her neck, teasing the sensitive flesh with his teeth. "You...ah...have got to be kidding me," she replied. "You can't even admit that you want this, can you? Not to me, not to Maxson...hell, you can't even admit it to yourself."

Danse moaned as her hands played across his broad chest, struggling to regain control. "I...I'm dreaming, aren't I?" he said.

Myra nodded. "Of course you are. That's the only time you'd ever allow anything like this to happen, isn't it?"

"I shouldn't even be allowing this now," he murmured as she ran her fingers through his hair. "It's not right, thinking about you like this. What would the real Myra say if she knew?"

She laughed. "I think she might surprise you, Danse. If you ever bothered to find out. But you and I both know that you haven't got the balls."

He frowned, pushing dream-Myra off of his lap as she squeaked in protest. "I don't appreciate what you're implying," he muttered. "I'm no coward."

"No," a deeper voice replied. Cutler sat on the couch where Myra had been, his hazel eyes dancing with amusement. "You aren't a coward, are you, T? You just hide behind your regulations and let the people who love you pay the price. You didn't even question it when you killed me, did you, buddy?"

"I had no choice!" Danse exclaimed. He knew he wasn't going to win this argument. He and Cutler had been having it almost every night since the day he'd pulled the trigger. "What that mutant filth did to you...I had no choice!"

"There's always a choice, T," his friend replied. "But you've always taken the easy way out, ever since you joined the Brotherhood. You told me you were glad to finally have a family. But I was your family, too. And in the end, you chose regulations over me. Don't make the same mistake with her."

* * *

Danse woke in a cold sweat, his abdomen throbbing. He reached out for the bell Ignatius had placed by his bedside, ringing it with trembling hands. In a matter of moments, the doctor appeared, a glass full of murky solution in his hand.

"I heard you cry out, Paladin," Ignatius said calmly, helping Danse sit up, "so I already had this waiting." He pressed the rim of the class to Danse's lips, and the Paladin grimaced and sputtered as the bitter herbal medicine touched his tongue. "Easy," Ignatius continued. "You don't want to waste any. I'm running low on some of these herbs. Soon, I won't be able to make any more medicine and I'll have to find some alternatives."

Danse nodded, draining the glass carefully. "Thank you, doctor."

The large man sighed, sitting on the edge of Myra's bed with a concerned frown. "Paladin, this isn't just the pain, is it? Something's bothering you, I can tell. If you need to talk…"

Danse shook his head. "I'm doing better, now that I'm awake. Thank you for your concern, but I can handle a few unpleasant dreams."

"Well, if you change your mind…" the doctor smiled gently at him. "Try to get some more rest, won't you? The General will be pissed if you don't, and I think she's much more likely to take it out on me than on her favorite companion."

"I somehow doubt I'm her favorite," Danse replied, blushing. "But I'll do as you ask. Good night, Ignatius."

"Good night, Danse," the doctor replied. "If you need anything else…"

"I'll ring the bell," Danse finished with a slight smile. Ignatius returned his smile, taking the empty glass with him as he departed. The Paladin lay back down with a low moan, trying to at least rest his eyes. But every time he closed them, the image of Cutler's jeering face returned, tormenting him. Danse sighed. It was going to be another long night.


	8. The Patchwork Woman

**8\. The Patchwork Woman**

_Mac and Lori continue their escape. But things are not as benign as they seem._

**_*WARNING: Peril, Torture, and Rapey Dialogue. Not for the gentle of dispositions. Skip this chapter if you don't like that sort of thing.*_**

* * *

It had been three days since MacCready and Lori had emerged from the Grave into the bitter early spring chill of the Commonwealth. The mercenary shivered against the unforgiving wind, his arms tightly crossed around his scrawny torso as he scanned the skeletal woods for shelter.

"This way, RJ," Lori called, her soft voice muffled by the thick scarf she wore around her lower face. "At least I think it's this way."

Now that he could see her more clearly, MacCready was amazed at how much Lori really did resemble Lucy. He had thought the similarities were a combination of the poor light and his own delusions, but the two women could have been sisters, if not twins. They shared the same straight, ashy hair that hung long and loose about the shoulders, the same stunning brown eyes. But where Lucy's eyes were always warm with compassion, Lori's were harsher, colder than the wind. And while they shared a sun-kissed complexion, Lori's exposed skin was marred by strange, precise scars that crossed her body like irrigation lines. Were those marks made by the men who had taken them? Some were pale, faded to white against her tan skin, but others seemed still fresh, particularly those that lay under her scarf, hidden away except for a few red, raw marks that peeked past the thick fabric. He assumed that was why she'd covered the lower half of her face once they'd emerged into the sunlight. She probably didn't want him to see what they'd done to her.

Whatever had happened to her, it must have been extremely traumatic, MacCready realized. His heart ached for the young woman. How many people had suffered at the hands of men like the ones who'd taken him? What had they done to Lori and the others before he'd been able to set her free? And for how long?

The mercenary followed Lori as she headed downhill, away from the river that they'd been following. "Where are we going?" he asked. From what he could tell, they'd been headed south - maybe southeast - for days. Soon, they'd probably run out of Commonwealth to cross.

Lori turned back towards him with a sigh. "There's a swamp around here," she said simply. "Last time I was through this area, I noticed a small shack on the edge of it that might be a good place to rest for the night."

"The last time you were here?" MacCready replied, his eyes wide. "I didn't know you knew this place."

Lori hesitated for a moment, her brown eyes narrowed. "I wasn't always a prisoner, you know. After my brother...I spent a lot of time travelling, trying to find the people who killed him. It's been a few months since I was down here, but it's a good place to disappear, if nothing else. No one comes to these swamps."

MacCready shrugged. After all, he was hardly in a position to argue. Lori had shot down most of his suggestions already, claiming that she was afraid to return to any of the larger settlements in case their captors were still looking for them. Since they'd both been taken from what should have been secure areas, Mac was inclined to agree with her. Hiding out in the wilderness for a while might be their best chance.

After another few hours of slogging through the unforgiving swamp, the pair arrived at the shack Lori had described. The wasteland had not been kind to the rickety old wood building. The slats that made up its walls had warped and twisted, creating huge gaps that allowed the wind and weather easy access to the interior, and one of the corners of the roof had caved in, creating a jagged hole. Still, it seemed safe enough, once they took the time to ensure that no radroaches had taken the property over.

The interior was damp and full of mildew, and MacCready cringed as his foot slipped in a puddle of something viscous that coated parts of the earthen floor. There was no furniture save for an old chair with three legs and a mattress that looked like it'd been soaked in no less than three different types of bodily fluids throughout its lifespan. A filthy metal bucket sat in one corner, the stench emerging from it giving no illusions as to its purpose. It was better than nothing, but that was a pretty low standard, even given the circumstances.

"It's getting late," the mercenary said with a sigh. "I suppose this will have to do. I'll go catch us some dinner and maybe find something less disgusting to sleep on."

Lori nodded. "Be careful, RJ," she said softly.

"I'll do my best," he replied. "While I'm gone, if you're feeling up to it, you could gather some mud with that bucket over there. Maybe we can patch the holes in the wall a little bit. Keep some of the clod out, at least."

"I'll try," she said, groaning in disgust as she approached the container. "What I wouldn't give for a room at the _Dugout Inn _about now."

MacCready chuckled. "You and me both, lady. I'm no stranger to roughing it, but I've gotta admit, this is pretty rough."

As the mercenary crouched amid the cattails, trying to sneak up on a particularly fat bloatfly, he realized once again how much he missed his sniper rifle. Hopefully, his beloved gun was still safe and sound at Myra's house. He wasn't sure how he would cope if his kidnappers had taken it for themselves. There were very few things MacCready treasured in the world, and almost all of them were back in Cheverly. He sighed as he thought about Heather. What would she say if she could see him now, wading through radioactive muck in the pursuit of one of the saddest meals of his life? Damn woman would probably have a field day. Still, what he wouldn't give for her by his side right about now. Heather was a lot of things to a lot of people, but for him, she was someone he could depend on, and such people were truly rare.

He choked back a few tears as he thought of Duncan. Was he even still alive? MacCready knew that Heather and that lousy husband of hers would do what they could for his son. He had no doubts about that, or he'd never have left Duncan in their care. All the same, he'd been gone a long time. What if the illness had finally taken the boy, and MacCready was just grasping at false hope? It had been months since the last letter from Heather had reached him. Was there a reason she'd stopped writing, or was he simply not receiving his mail?

MacCready shook his head. This was no time to lose it. He could be homesick once he'd gotten back to what passed for civilization. His survival as well as Lori's depended on him staying focused, especially since he only had his wits and a few rounds of pipe ammo left to rely on.

Much to his chagrin, it took three shots for him to down the bloatfly. He groaned in disgust as he picked through its carcass, salvaging whatever edible bits he could. Between the fly itself and its larvae, there was enough protein for a couple light meals or one decently-sized one for both of them. Not bad. It'd taste like crap, but it'd keep them alive for a while.

He rooted around in the mud carefully, uprooting a few cattails. This time of year, the tops of the plant weren't all that useful for food, but the roots would make a passable flour for bread once they were dried and ground. He made sure to collect enough to eat fresh, with a few left over for later. As for the stalks, while they weren't good for eating, they'd make decent bedding and an excellent binding material for the mud that Lori was hopefully collecting. If they were lucky, they might have a halfway comfortable night, with a little something to grow on.

He packed the bloatfly bits away in the makeshift bundle he carried. One of the guards, fortunately, had been wearing a long-sleeved shirt around his waist. It was fairly simple for MacCready to run a few quick stitches through the bottom with some scraps of cloth and Lori's knife. The thing wasn't exactly durable, but it was enough to hold the few remaining supplies he'd looted from the prison.

After he'd secured the meat, MacCready gathered a large armful of uprooted cattails, tucking them under his left arm. At least if there were any threats, he'd still have his right open for shooting. With a sigh, he began his slog back through the marsh, trying to ignore the mud that seeped into his boots. He hated a lot of things, it was true, but being cold and being muddy were definitely in the top tier of things he despised.

Lucy used to laugh when he'd come home after contracts on rainy days. She said he always looked like a drowned rat pretending to be a man. The comment had hurt, the first few times. Now, he wished he could hear her tease him again, just one more time.

MacCready reached for the pack of cigarettes he usually kept in his pack, groaning as he remembered that his belongings were gone. He checked his pockets with a quick pat down his sides, grinning as he managed to locate a crumpled pack in his breast pocket. The cigarette he withdrew from it was bent and damp, and he realized with dismay that he had no way to light it, but it was still comforting just holding the cursed thing between his lips. Lucy always gave him so much grief for smoking and drinking. It was strange how much more he did it when he was thinking of her. Maybe it was because it reminded him of how much she'd cared.

When he returned to the shack, Lori had already started a fire and was warming herself by it. MacCready had to admit that he was impressed. Not everyone could make a fire with damp wood, especially without a lighter. For her frightened, broken demeanor, Lori was proving to have quite a few hidden talents. He smiled over at her, putting the battered cigarette back in his pocket. Maybe he'd smoke it later, after dinner.

"Hey, RJ." chirped Lori. "Any luck on dinner?"

He nodded, pulling the carcass out of his makeshift bundle. "Got us some bloatfly. It's not going to be nice," he apologized, "but it'll keep us alive. I also found a bunch of cattails, so we're good on fiber for a while. Can you help me clean the roots?"

Lori nodded, pulling her knife free from her belt. "Yeah, pass them over."

He handed her the large bundle he'd collected, and showed her where to cut the plants and what parts were safe to eat. It took her a few tries to get the hang of it, but soon enough, the edible parts were separated from the stalks and were ready to be cooked. MacCready took the stalks, laying a number of them out on the floor to create two small beds. Once the stalks were down, he pulled apart the desiccated catkins, laying the downy inner fibers over the reeds to make a slightly softer mattress. It wasn't much, but the plants would help keep their bodies warm and off the damp ground. The remaining stalks were set aside for the walls.

"I'll get dinner started," MacCready said. While I'm cooking, do you mind using a couple of those rocks to break up the fibers in the leftover reeds? We'll need them to keep the mud on the walls."

Lori nodded. "I don't think that I would have thought of that," she replied.

"I told you I was the best. Well, I've never used cattails before," MacCready replied as he pulled a battered metal bowl from his bundle and braced it against the side of the fire with a few stones. "Back home, I had to repair a few of the walls when we settled there. A friend taught me how to make mortar out of mud and dried grass to fill the gaps in the wood and metal sheets we used. It actually works pretty well, as long as you mix the stuff right."

"Tell me more about your home, RJ," the woman said as she beat the cattail stalks. "If you don't mind, that is."

"It's fine," he replied. "Honestly, there's not much to tell. After my wife died...well, I got tired of wandering around all the time. That's no life for a kid. So we moved to this abandoned town on the outskirts of the Capital Wasteland called Cheverly. One of my closest friends already lived there, so me and Duncan just sort of just moved in next door and started a farm. It's not much, but it's good to have something that's yours, I guess."

"That sounds pretty great," the woman mused. "If I had a home like that, I'd never have left it. What made you leave?"

MacCready stared into the fire for a long time before responding. "I had my reasons," he said finally. He wasn't quite comfortable telling her everything. Not yet.

"They must have been pretty good reasons," Lori pressed.

"Yeah," he said glumly, his eyes misting. "Maybe I'll get back there someday."

Lori stopped working and wandered over to sit beside him at the fire. She shivered, leaning against him. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around the slight woman, sharing his body heat. "I'm sorry for prying," Lori replied. "It's just...I understand. After Karl died, I tried my hardest to keep our homestead up. But I'm just one woman. It didn't take long before it got taken away from me. Then, I guess I didn't really have anything left. So I came here to try and make a life for myself. Obviously, that hasn't worked out."

MacCready chuckled. "Well, hey. It's a life, at least. You're still kicking, so I guess that means you've still got some hope, right?"

"Yeah…"she mused, snuggling against him, her head resting on his chest. MacCready could feel his heart racing as he looked past the top of her head, eyes trained on the fire. It was so easy to talk to her, so hard to remember that she wasn't Lucy, that she was just a stranger that fate had thrown into his life. All he wanted was to share her warmth, to keep holding her in his arms. But a hiss from his makeshift pot startled him, and he gently pushed her away from him so he could stir the meat.

"Sorry!" he muttered, his ears burning. "Can't let the food burn."

"No, I'm sorry," Lori replied, a faint blush peeking from under her scarf. "I shouldn't have...I'll be over here." She wandered back over to the rocks, continuing to work on the mortar.

MacCready groaned. He was an idiot. Here he was, trying to be a good guy and hopefully keep them alive, and he was getting distracted by...what? Feelings? For someone he'd just met? It was ridiculous. He wasn't a kid any more, and he needed to get his act together before he made a mistake. Out here in the wilderness, even the smallest lapse in judgement could be fatal.

She wasn't Lucy. He had to get that through his thick skull. All the closeness he felt with her was an illusion, a product of their circumstances. He knew nothing about her besides what she'd told him. Hell, there was a possibility that none of that was even true. Still, he couldn't help but relax when she was nearby, and there were so few people he really felt that way around. Maybe there was something real between them after all.

He sighed, stirring the cooked meat and roots before carefully pulling the makeshift pot from the fire with his duster sleeve. He swore under his breath as his grip slipped and his knuckles grazed the hot metal. What he wouldn't give for a damn oven mitt about now.

"Are you okay?" Lori asked, rushing back over to him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, embarrassed. "Dinner's done. Now we've just got to let it cool a bit."

She frowned, pushing his sleeve up to look at his hand. "Well, I've seen worse," she mused. "I think you'll live."

"Thank god!" he retorted with a grin. "I was worried you were gonna amputate for a moment there."

"Still, we should get some water on this," she continued.

MacCready shook his head. "Check my left pocket. There should still be a little thing of ointment in there. I don't think they actually searched me that well. Morons."

Lori reached into his coat pocket, her long fingers gently caressing his side as she rooted through the crap he carried. MacCready whimpered slightly at her touch, hoping she didn't notice. If she did, her eyes didn't show anything, but he could have sworn that she took longer to find the burn cream than she needed to. "Is this it?" she asked, holding up a small tin.

The mercenary nodded. "Yeah, that's the stuff."

She nodded, opening the tin. The familiar reek of Moira Brown's All-Purpose Survival Grease filled the air, and the young woman recoiled. "What the hell is in this stuff?" she cried.

"I'm not really sure," he replied. "I just know that it works. Friend of mine helped develop it. Trust me, it kicks serious as...um, I mean, it's really good."

Lori chuckled softly, rubbing a small quantity of the ointment between her fingers before carefully applying it to his knuckles. After that, she pulled her scarf loose, wrapping it carefully around his injury. The darkness and the flicker of the fire obscured her features, but he could still plainly see the dark, still-fresh scars that crossed her thin jaw, her soft, pale throat. It might have just been a trick of the light, but the skin seemed less cohesive around her lower face, the shades and textures not quite matching up properly, as though she'd been torn apart and put back together slightly wrong. MacCready did his best not to stare.

"Now, normally, I'd kiss it and make it better," Lori joked, "but that stuff probably tastes even worse than it smells."

"That's a shame," MacCready said without really thinking.

"Well, I mean…" Lori mused, leaning towards him slowly, "I guess it'd have the same effect if I just kissed you, huh?"

MacCready gulped, backing away slightly. His mind raced. Was she really doing this? He couldn't deny that he ached for her touch, but he also knew that it wasn't her touch he really wanted. Was it really okay for him to... "I...well, hang on," he protested. "What about dinner?"

She grinned, the patchwork lines of her face shifting and warping as she smiled. "You said it needed to cool, right?"

He nodded slightly, his mind blank as she closed the remaining inches between them, her mouth suddenly on his. MacCready let out a small squeak of surprise as she pulled him to his feet, leading him away from the fire. "What are you…" he managed as she broke the kiss, smiling seductively up at the mercenary.

"Just relax, RJ," she soothed. "Let me take care of you."

He gulped, the heat rising in his cheeks. "I mean, that sounds like...um...yeah, okay." She kissed him again, her lips warm and chapped against his skin. He moaned as she kissed down his jawline, her teeth grazing his neck. "But, you know, we just met a couple days ago, and I...well, I haven't...you know. For a while. A long, long while," he added with a nervous laugh.

"Me neither," she mused, her fingertips grazing the lobe of his ear. "Not on my terms, at least."

MacCready pulled away from her slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Lori, I…"

"Shh," she replied. "It's okay. You can pretend I'm her if that's what you need. I don't care. I just...I don't want to be alone tonight."

He frowned, holding her at arm's length. "Are you serious? That's not fair, is it? Why would you be okay with that?"

Lori rolled her eyes. "Look, RJ. We've been through a lot in the last few days. I just thought...I mean, if you'd rather not…" she touched her face gently, her eyes tearing up. "Is it because of the scars?"

MacCready shook his head. "Hey, that's not the problem. I mean, I really, really do want to. And I mean, you're really fuc...um, really pretty. But I'm not comfortable using you like that. That's not the kind of guy I am. If we're gonna...I'd like to know it was because I wanted to be with you, not a ghost. And I'm still not...I don't think I'm ready to let her go."

Lori snorted. "Well, look who decided to grow a fucking conscience, huh?" She pulled her knife free from her belt, holding it just under his chin. "Come on, RJ, at least make it worth all the hassle of getting you alone out here."

MacCready's eyes widened as she drew the very tip of the cold steel blade across his throat slowly, delicately, a kiss of ice on his sensitive skin. He kept himself as still as possible, trying to avoid getting cut, but his brain was screaming at him to get away, to move, anything besides allowing this to continue.

"Why?" he asked quietly, his eyes locked with hers. He'd never seen those brown eyes so cold, so full of icy hate.

Lori smiled slightly, caressing his cheek with the blade as he backed away. She moved with him as if locked in a dance, backing him against the shack wall. "What do you mean, why?" she mused. "You've been a bad, bad man, RJ MacCready. It's high time someone made you pay the price." She chuckled, grabbing the hair on the back of her head and pulling roughly.

MacCready whimpered in pain as she forcibly pulled his head back, exposing his neck. His chest throbbed as his heart beat frantically like a small, tormented thing seeking to escape the cage of his chest. She used the flat of her knife to pull his scarf free from his neck, letting the fabric fall to the filthy ground. Seemingly delighted at the new patch of skin to play with, she ghosted her lips across the flesh of his collarbone, humming gently to herself.

"Now," she continued, "I'm going to hurt you, RJ. But before I do, I'm going to give you one more chance to do things the nice way. I'm still going to hurt you, but I can make you feel good first. It's entirely up to you."

"Screw you," he hissed. "Why would I ever go along with that?"

She tutted, yanking his head back even further. "Don't you want to be with Lucy again? I'll admit, I'm probably not half the wet blanket in bed she likely was, but I can fake it, if you'd like. Just stare at the ceiling and wait for it all to end?" Lori laughed hollowly. "Well, either way, one of us will be doing that tonight."

"If you really want to help me be with her again," MacCready growled, "just kill me and be done with it."

Lori scowled, drawing her knife across his collarbone slowly. A thin line of crimson followed her blade, and MacCready yelped as he felt his flesh give way. "So you'd rather just go right to the pain?" She asked. "Fine. It's a shame, really. I wanted to at least make you think you'd gotten everything you wanted before I tore it all away. Oh well. I'm getting bored, and this works too. On your knees, asshole."

MacCready froze, his mind racing. "Why are you doing this?" he asked softly. "I helped you."

The woman sighed impatiently, grabbing his collar and yanking him forward. As she did so, she kicked downward across his knees knocking his legs out from under him. The mercenary cried out in shock and pain as he fell to the damp ground. "I said on your knees!" Lori hissed. "You're a smart guy, aren't you, RJ? I'm sure you can figure it out."

"I'm really not that bright," he grumbled in protest, grit and filth filling his mouth, "so why don't you explain what's happening here."

She crouched beside him, her knife glinting in the remaining light. "You almost had me, you know. I was this close to deciding to let you live. But you don't deserve mercy. You have to learn that your actions have consequences."

"My actions?" he retorted. "What have I ever done to you, Lori?"

She laughed bitterly, slicing into the exposed flesh of his arm. MacCready cried out in pain as she ran the knife down his arm, expertly avoiding his artery. "You're really going to pretend that you don't know? I didn't go through all this trouble for someone who can't even fucking remember. It was all going to be so simple. I was just going to kill your beautiful, sweet, useless wife. But you couldn't even keep her alive long enough to get to Fairfax, could you?"

"Fairfax?" MacCready cried, gasping in pain. "You're from…"

"The Capital Wasteland," Lori finished with a sneer. "That's right. I've been tracking you for years, you bastard. You're the last one. The others were easy. But you? You've always been so damn lucky."

The mercenary scowled defiantly. "I've gotta admit, I'm not feeling that lucky right now."

Lori pressed her nails into his wound, pulling the flesh apart slowly. MacCready screamed as the burning agony sent shocks through his nervous system. "But you are, aren't you, RJ? Look at you. You took everything from me! My brother, my friends...and what did you get? A fucking second chance! You had Lucy, your son, a happy life. It wasn't fair! You deserved to be punished for your crimes, not rewarded! So I had to make it right. Don't you see? I had to even the scales."

MacCready stared at her through tear-blurred eyes, biting his lip so hard it bled. Like hell he was going to give her the satisfaction of another scream. "So what?" He finally gasped. "You think this'll bring your brother back? You think this is what he would have wanted?"

"I don't give a fuck what Karl would have wanted!" she screamed, slapping him so hard his ears rung. "He was always too kind for his own good. So was I, back then. I really believed that people were mostly good. But then, you and your friends showed up. And I learned different. You stole his life. Now, I'm going to enjoy destroying yours."

Lori stood, grabbing MacCready by his collar and dragging him to the back of the cabin. She pulled a length of rope from underneath the soiled mattress, looping it through a pair of heavy metal rings anchored to a concrete slab on the floor that the disgusting bedding had obscured. Quickly, she bound his arms and ankles together, lashing him to the floor so that he was forced to remain kneeling. His arms ached as they stretched behind his back unnaturally, the wounded one substantially more so.

"What's your plan, exactly?" he groaned. "If you're just going to kill me, why make such a production out of it? I'm guessing all of this...the kidnapping, even this place was your doing, right?"

Lori nodded, sneering down at him. "After I lost everything...I realized what I had to do. I couldn't just kill you and the others. I needed you to know, to understand what you did when you took my brother's life. I swore to make each of you suffer through the same thing you put me through. But after Lucy died too early, I had to come up with a new plan, a better plan. So I spent all the caps I'd saved, sold the farm, walked away from that life. I bought friends, men willing to do what needed to be done. It's amazing what you can get from some people with a few caps, isn't it?"

"Spare me the morality lesson," MacCready spat. "I'm sorry, okay? If I really did kill your brother, I'm sorry."

Lori rolled her eyes. "It's too late for that. There's no forgiveness. Not for you. I mean, you can't even remember if you killed him or not. That means you've killed too many people to remember, doesn't it? You deserve worse than this, don't you?"

The mercenary nodded. "Yeah. And I imagine someday I'll have to pay for my sins. Hell, maybe I already am. I've already lost Lucy. But my son...he's dying. You can do what you want to me, but please, let me try to save him first. He's innocent."

"I'm so sorry," Lori said gently, caressing his cheek. "That really must terrify you, right? Knowing that there's nothing you can do to save someone you love?"

"I can save him," MacCready continued. "I just need time."

"Okay," she replied, her hands slipping back behind him, fingers touching the knotted bonds. "If I let you go, you have to come right back, okay?"

"I promise," MacCready said softly. "If Duncan lives, I'll let you do whatever you want to me." His eyes met hers, pleading with her to listen, to understand.

"The only problem with that," Lori continued calmly, "is that I don't give a fuck about your son. If he has your blood in his veins, then he can rot too, as far as I'm concerned." She released her grip on the rope, dragging her nails along his wounded arm again.

"No!" MacCready yelled, struggling against the rope. "He's just a child!"

Lori smirked, showing him his blood on her fingers before slowly licking it off. "Interesting. Somehow, I imagined yours would taste different. Unlike the girls who gave me their skin, you're hardly innocent." She sighed halfheartedly. "Tell you what? Why don't I go check on Duncan for you, once we're done here? I wonder who he takes after more, you or me?"

"You're crazy!" he protested. "Your skin...none of it's yours?"

Lori nodded. "It took quite a lot of work to make this face just right, you know. And it's a shame I haven't been able to completely mask the scars. Blood baths help the skin take, but there's not much they can do for the space between. It was worth it, though, wasn't it? Look at me. All that effort, and I really do look just like her, don't I?"

MacCready laughed hoarsely. "You might have the looks down, lady, even with the scars. But you aren't a thing like Lucy. You never could be."

Lori kicked him roughly in the ribs, and he whimpered in pain as his body tried to collapse in on itself only to be hampered by the ropes binding him in place. "Why, because I'm not soft and weak, not…" her eyes widened, welling with compassion. "...vulnerable, lost, needing your help?" she finished, her voice soft and fragile, a macabre recreation of Lucy's. In an instant, her eyes hardened again, and she grimaced. "But that's not the point. The point is, I wasn't able to take her away from you then, but I sure as hell can now. Her and your boy. By the time I'm done with you, you won't have a single memory of her left that I won't have tainted. And when there's nothing left for you to grieve, maybe I'll let you die."

The mercenary braced himself as she kicked him again, crying out in spite of his best efforts. As the blows continued, the world began to fade away, until all that was left was the pain, the darkness, and Lucy's face, malicious and crazed as the woman who wore it laughed and laughed. Oblivion, then, was a welcome escape, and he embraced it wholeheartedly, letting the nothingness take him.


	9. The Unforgiving Heart

**9\. The Unforgiving Heart**

_ Myra, Nick, and Deacon finally catch up with MacCready and Lori. Myra proves her salt._

**_*One more gore and violence warning for the road! After this, we're back to the not-gross stuff, promise!*_**

* * *

A little over a day after Deacon, Whisper, and Nick left the underground bunker, MacCready's trail went cold. The trio had made good progress at first, stumbling across a dead campfire fairly quickly as they followed the river to Cutler Bend. The ashes were cold and damp, but it was clear that the fire had been made recently. Footprints surrounded the site, two distinct sets that continued downriver for a half mile or so before fading out. After that, they'd been unable to pick up much of a trail at all.

Over the next few days, they did what they could, sweeping the area carefully as they followed the river. But it was difficult to tell if they were following MacCready or getting further away from him, especially as the days continued. With every passing hour, their chances of finding the mercenary faded away.

Deacon frowned as he scanned the tall grass along the bank for broken blades. Whoever had left the second, smaller set of footprints was likely smart enough to erase any sign MacCready might have left behind for them to track. If that were the case, the fire itself might even be a false lead. They might not have followed the river at all. The two of them - if it was only just the two of them - could be anywhere.

The spy glanced over at Whisper. She was scanning the map on her Pip-Boy, trying to find landmarks to travel by. The woman sighed dejectedly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

"No luck?" Deacon asked.

She shook her head. "There's just too many places they could be. It seems like the southern part of the Commonwealth's just a maze. Even if we went back for Dogmeat, I doubt we'd be able to get much of a trail. We've been following the river for hours now. If they were still nearby, I feel like we'd have found them already."

"Yeah, that's my take too," the spy replied. "So if they went inland, where do you think they'd go?"

"I guess that depends on who Mac's with, right?" she mused, her brow furrowing. "I mean, if he's traveling with an obsessed mass murderer like we think he is, I think there's a pretty good chance that she's got some idea of where she's taking him. Trouble is, unless we can get in her head, we aren't going to understand the logic of her actions. And we just don't know anything about this woman, except that she's ruthless and weirdly focused on whoever Lucy is."

Deacon sighed. "Look, it's not my place to tell you this, which is why I haven't. Hell, MacCready hasn't even told me about Lucy. But as you know, information's my business. It's amazing what you can piece together if you're patient."

"Are you going to keep me in suspense all day, Deacon, or can you fill me in?" Whisper muttered.

"Lucy's Mac's wife. Well, was. She's been dead for longer than I've known him. From what I can tell, it was a pretty horrible death, too. I haven't gotten the specifics, but I think Mac was there when it happened."

Whisper paled, her emerald eyes welling with tears. "Oh, God. Poor Mac. Why didn't he tell me? When we've been travelling together, I've gone on and on about Nate...I'm such an idiot."

Deacon closed the distance between them, taking her hand gently. "Hey. No. No, you're not. Look, Whisp, you had no way of knowing if he didn't tell you."

"But I should have noticed!" she retorted, sniffling. "Damn it, he was always so sympathetic when I needed to talk. I should have realized that he understood. There's nothing as terrible as losing a spouse. I should have...I should have been there for him, too."

The spy felt his heart clench. Part of him wanted to tell her that he understood, too. But she already felt so guilty about Mac. He couldn't burden her with his pain as well. Besides, why would he ever tell her the truth? He didn't tell it to anyone, and there were plenty of people he'd known longer who deserved to hear his story first. Who was Whisper, after all? She was just a wounded animal Deacon had rescued, a tool to serve the Railroad's purposes, just like him. Letting her see him for who he really was, wanting anything more from their relationship than what they currently had... those desires were dangerous and unwelcome. So instead of sharing his own grief with her, Deacon just stood there, holding her hand gently as she choked back tears. It wasn't much, but it was all he could give her. "I'm sure you were there for him more than you realize," he said softly.

Whisper squeezed his hand before releasing it, wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve. "Sorry. I'm being ridiculous."

"No," Deacon replied, smiling back at her kindly. "You're being human. But that's enough of that. Try being something else. Like an airboat. Then we could just zoom right across all this swampland and find Mac in no time."

Whisper snorted. "Or I could just call down a vertibird, and we could search from the air."

Deacon gulped. He hated heights. "Oh, yeah. Great plan. I'm sure the Brotherhood would be thrilled if you brought Nick on one of their death machines. How many seconds do you think we'd be up there before they tossed him out?"

"That's a good point," she replied, frowning. "I understand where the Brotherhood's coming from. But sometimes, I wish they'd be a little more flexible. Not everything that isn't human is evil. Nick's proof of that. He helped me find out where Shaun is, and didn't even charge me for it. Something about not wanting to profit off of misery or something."

"Fee's due when you get your son back, doll," Nick piped from a few feet away. "You'd better not be skipping out on me. I'm a good guy, don't get me wrong. But if I don't get paid, I don't get to keep the lights on and annoy the neighbors."

Deacon grinned. "Hell, if it'll piss off crazy old Myrna, I'll donate to that. That woman's a menace."

"That she is. But right now, she's not our concern. This is." Nick crouched beside a patch of moist earth, his yellow eyes scanning the ground.

"Did you find something?" Whisper asked, running over to him.

The detective nodded. "Look. Boot prints. Pretty fresh ones, too, made within the last week. Given how close we are to the river still, I'd say odds are pretty good that they're from your merc, our killer, or someone else after them."

Deacon crouched down as well, tracing the faint print with his fingers. "Yeah, these are definitely MacCready's prints. See that railsign across the heel of the print, with the ally mark in the middle? I carved it there a few months ago while he was sleeping."

Whisper stared at him. "You carved a railsign into Mac's shoe?"

Deacon grinned. "Well, I meant it as a bit of a joke. I never expected it would come in handy like this." He pointed to the top of the footprint. "Print's not too distorted, unlike the ones back at that camp. That means he wasn't running. If we move quickly, we might actually be able to catch up."

"But if we keep heading in this direction," Nick replied, "there's nothing but swamp for miles. I don't know about you, but the Institute didn't exactly equip me with bloodhound senses. If they changed direction once they hit the swamp, they could be anywhere by now."

Whisper shook her head. "Not just anywhere. Let's think about this rationally, detective. If we assume Mac isn't being coerced, since we haven't seen any more signs of a struggle, he'd probably choose the easiest route through the swamp. Deacon, you know how much he hates getting wet."

The spy nodded. "Yeah. It's hard enough getting the guy to bathe once in a while. You'd think he was allergic to the stuff. Mac would probably try to find the shallowest parts to cross. If we keep our eyes peeled for any broken vegetation around those areas, we might get lucky."

Nick sighed. "Well, it's certainly better than just standing around out here. Let's fan out and each take a different path through the swamp. That'll increase our chances. Myra, you take the left. I'll take the right. Deacon, you think you can handle the middle?"

"I've always wanted to wade through a radioactive death bog!" Deacon joked. "How did you know?"

"Like I said," Nick replied dryly, "I think the muck suits you."

Whisper chuckled, kicking at a pile of decaying leaves. "Come on, guys. Let's save the teasing for after we find MacCready. You know he'd be sad he missed it."

"It's safe to say there's plenty more where that came from," Deacon replied. "But you're right, Dorothy. As per usual. Come on, Tik-Tok."

"Are you really making an OZ reference right now?" Whisper asked with a frown.

"Hey, what can I say?" Deacon replied. "When books are hard to come by, you read the ones you can find."

"I feel like I'm supposed to be insulted," Nick muttered. "But I never had much patience for children's books. Now, Shakespeare, or a good crime novel, that's another thing entirely. You ever read any Chandler?"

Whisper rolled her eyes. "Guys. Please. We don't have time for this. Just save it for the trip home."

Deacon sighed. She was absolutely right. He was stalling, and getting Nick riled up was a good distraction. But he had every reason to delay. Although he desperately wanted to find MacCready, he wasn't so sure he wanted to see what they were going to find. Given the circumstances, there might not be much of their friend left to recover. It was easier just to pretend that they were out for a really unpleasant stroll than to face the ugly truth.

* * *

Hours passed as they slogged through the thick mud, and Deacon's eyes stung from the strain of the search and the stench of decaying plant matter that filled the air around the bog. He'd never particularly enjoyed spending time in nature, not even when he'd been a farmer. He'd always felt more at home in the city, fading in and out of the ruined buildings like a ghost. There was an anonymity to an urban environment, a crowd to blend into. No one asked too many questions. But here, in the wilderness, he felt exposed, watched. There were few secrets in the country, and those that had been buried there had a way of getting unearthed in the worst possible ways.

As he pressed grimly forward, he noticed Whisper to his left. She was running, her short white hair blowing out behind her, catching the early evening sunlight like crystal. Her face was grim, eyes focused ahead. He followed her line of sight, picking up the pace as he noticed what looked like a building in the distance. Was that a cabin?

"Nick!" he hissed, turning to his right. "Myra's got something."

"Well, all right!" the synth detective replied, changing course. The three of them converged on the structure, moving quickly and quietly as they approached.

Whisper slowed to a crawl as she neared the building, holding a hand up. "Wait!" she hissed. "Let's be smart about this. If the person Mac's with is as dangerous as we think she is, we have to be prepared for a trap."

Deacon nodded. "Okay. Here's the plan. Whisp, you and I will go in first. Nick, you stay and watch the door." He dug through his pack, pulling out a pair of Stealth Boys and handing them to Whisper. "I'll stall whoever else is in there. You get MacCready out. We'll meet back up by that stand of trees south of here."

Whisper shook her head, passing one of the cloaking devices back. "I have a better idea. You take Mac, but stay visible. We'll lure our kidnappers out, then I'll come in from behind and catch them off guard."

Deacon grinned. "So we're going to use Mac and I as bait, huh? Well, it's not the worst plan. But if I get shot because of this, I'm haunting you. I won't even be polite about it. I'm just gonna float around and move all your belongings a few inches off center every time your back is turned."

"You monster!" Whisper said softly, smiling. "Trust me, Deacon. I think this'll work."

"I don't trust anyone," he replied. "And neither should you. That being said, good luck."

"Good luck," Whisper replied, shaking his hand. She turned to Nick. "Are you ok with this?"

"Yeah, sure," Nick mumbled. "You know what they say about crowds. I'll make sure no one sneaks up on you, Myra."

"Thanks." She sighed, trying to calm herself down. "Ok. Let's move."

The shack had aged poorly, and what remained seemed determined to sag into the swamp. The scent of fresh ash clung to the fire outside the building's door. Someone had been here, and recently. But there was another smell, too, one that worried Deacon. The metallic, sweet tang of recently-spilled blood.

Whisper nodded to him and Nick before charging into the structure, her laser rifle at the ready. "Oh, God! Mac!" she cried out. "Are you okay?"

That was all Deacon needed to hear before charging in. The spy's eyes widened as he took in the grisly scene that waited inside. There was MacCready, hogtied to the floor, his face a canvas of bruises. If it weren't for the position he'd been bound in, the mercenary probably wouldn't be able to sit up. A pool of blood surrounded him, the product of a dozen shallow wounds, staining his pants and the bottom of his duster. The worst was his left arm, where a deep cut ran the course of it, muscle peeled carefully away from the bone. If it weren't for the quiet wheezing coming from the man every time he breathed, Deacon would have assumed that he was dead.

Whisper knelt next to the mercenary, slicing through the ropes that bound him carefully. "Hey, MacCready. Talk to me, okay? You're ok. We're here. We found you."

He shook his head weakly, swollen eyes peering hollowly at her. "No...trap."

Whisper nodded. "Yeah. I figured it was a trap. Still, if we can get you out of here…"

"No!" he said more emphatically. "You...you aren't real...can't be."

Deacon frowned, checking MacCready's arm. There was a strange residue on the wound, like something had been rubbed into it. He gently swiped a finger across the area before bringing it to his nose. The smell was instantly recognizable, funky and potent like fermented blood and fur mixed with strange herbs. "Whisp, he's been drugged."

She sighed. "I guess that makes sense. What is it? Jet?"

The spy grimaced. "Worse. Much worse. It's Voodoo. Man, I haven't seen that stuff in years. I didn't even think anyone still knew how to make it. From the look of things, someone's been pouring it directly into this wound. That's...oh, that's really not good."

"I've never heard of Voodoo," she said, concerned. "What's it do?"

"It's more unpredictable other chems," Deacon replied. "It boosts your damage resistance for a while, among other things, which might explain why Mac's still kicking. It also causes pretty crazy hallucinations if you take a lot of it at one time. Real vision quest type stuff. But if you use too much of it, it's extremely deadly. And we have no real way of knowing how much he's on."

Whisper sighed heavily. "So what you're saying is he's completely out of it, and even if we get him out of here, he might die anyway?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Well, shit," she hissed. "What now?"

Deacon thought for a moment. "Let's try and stay calm. Think, Whisp. If you were a crazy person obsessed with MacCready for some reason, what would you do?"

Whisper's eyes widened. "There's no way whoever did this gave him a fatal dose. They're probably trying to keep him alive for as long as possible."

"My thoughts exactly. If someone went to all this trouble, they've got something more specific in mind. And that means we still have a chance to save him. We've just got to move quickly." He turned to MacCready. "Hey, pal. Think you can walk for me?"

MacCready whimpered softly, shaking his head. "I'm not gonna leave her. Not again. You can't make me."

"Who, buddy?" Deacon asked. "Who is she?"

"My…" Maccready slurred, his eyes bleary with confusion, "it's Lucy...she said we'd be together again. I gotta stay."

"She's not your wife, Mac," Whisper said calmly. "Think about it. Why would Lucy do something like this to you?"

"I…" he murmured, his eyes welling painfully with tears, "No, she'd never...I must have really messed up."

"No. This isn't your fault, Mac," Whisper pleaded. "Please, listen to me. You're confused. But we're here to help you."

"That's what you said the last time," he moaned, "and then Lucy...she told me you weren't real. And I looked, and you weren't there any more. I was still tied up, and you weren't there!"

Deacon looked away, unable to bear the anguish on the mercenary's battered face. His body surged with emotions, sorrow and anger dueling for dominance. He hadn't felt this irate since the night he'd come for the Deathclaws. If he didn't get himself under control…

His thoughts were interrupted by a series of gunshots from outside, followed by a cry of alarm from Nick. "Someone's here!" the synth shouted. "Get MacCready and run! I'll try and buy you some time."

"What's wrong?" a feminine voice exclaimed. "Don't think you can handle one woman, you piece of junk?"

"Oh, I can handle you, all right," Nick replied. "It's the shooting you part that I'm more concerned about. I'm not exactly a fan of violence against women, no matter how loony they are."

Deacon helped MacCready up, supporting the mercenary's weight as much as he could. Fortunately, Mac was pretty light, especially with all the blood loss. "Hang on, buddy," the spy said, slinging MacCready over his shoulder. "This is probably going to hurt a lot, but we've got to run, and I'm not sure you can." He nodded to Whisper. "Let's go."

He tore through the door, making his way up the hill beyond the shack. It wasn't easy going, but he knew that dry land was a better call with all the extra weight he was carrying. The last thing he wanted was to lose MacCready in the swamp. In his condition, he'd probably drown quickly if Deacon slipped. The spy heard a series of angry shrieks and cries of dismay from behind him, but he just kept running, his eyes focused on the path ahead.

As he crested the hill, Deacon slowed, trying to catch his breath. He cursed his smoking habit as he gasped for air, coughing as his weakened lungs refused to work properly. For now, this was as far as he'd be able to go. Deacon lowered Mac to the ground and looked back at the commotion below.

Nick was locked in combat with the strange woman, doing his best to hold her back as she struggled to follow Deacon. In the fading daylight, her horrifying patchwork face seemed to contort, the death mask of dozens twisted in rage. The spy shuddered as he thought about the surgeon who'd done this to her. Whoever he was, the guy sucked at his craft.

Deacon glanced around for Whisper, but she was nowhere to be seen. That was either a good sign or a really, really bad one. He decided to hope for the former.

The stranger pummeled Nick, scratching at his ragged synthetic flesh. The detective held his own, his robotic arms firmly holding her to his chest. "Calm down, will you? I can do this all day, if I have to. The sooner you quit, the easier this will be for both of us."

The woman snarled. "You really think I wasn't prepared to deal with a fucking machine?" she replied, smacking a hand against her upper arm. A tesla coil surged to life from the roof of the cabin, and Nick cried out in alarm as his grip weakened enough for her to squirm fee. She ran up the hill, her face screwed up with rage.

In a moment, Whisper was on her, discarding a spent Stealth Boy as she tackled the other woman, slamming her into a nearby tree. "Really, bitch?" she growled.

"Let me go!" the woman screamed. "That bastard's mine! After everything I've sacrificed, everything I've lost…my brother's blood is on his hands! He deserves to suffer!"

"I know about loss!" Whisper hissed, her emerald eyes brimming with emotion. "I've lost more than you can ever imagine. My family, my friends, my entire world is gone. So trust me when I say that I understand your feelings. What I don't understand is why you'd go to such lengths just to get revenge on one man. Look at you. You're a monster."

"He deserves to suffer!" the woman cried again, struggling against Whisper's grasp, wincing as the tender flesh of her wrist scraped against rough bark. "It's not just about my brother! Don't you understand? He's scum! Look at him. He doesn't have an ounce of remorse in him for all the lives he's ruined, all the people he's killed!"

"That's not true!" Whisper replied. "That's not true at all! I might not have known him as long as you have, but I know MacCready, probably better than you do. He's not a cold-blooded killer. He cares about people. Hell, I'll bet he even cares about you." Whisper glanced over at the mercenary, quickly returning her focus to her prisoner as the woman tried to take advantage of her distraction. "And what about you? All those women…" Her voice trailed off, and Deacon could see the anguish in her eyes. Was she remembering the carnage left in the other woman's wake?

"The doctor said they were necessary sacrifices! Look at me! I look just like her, that woman he loved. He said that I could give RJ back what he'd lost. Then, I'd take it all away, so he'd know what I felt."

"Lu...Lori…" MacCready groaned. "Please...you don't have to do this. Just run. I promise, I won't come after you."

"It's too late for that now," Lori replied. With a flash, she reached down Whisper's side, pulling a small blade free from the other woman's belt. With a feral cry, she stabbed forward, plunging the blade into one of the gaps in Whisper's armor.

Whisper gasped in shock as blood pooled from the wound, and she released her grip on Lori's arm.

"No!" cried Deacon, running towards her, but Whisper waved him off. She pulled the small blade from her wound with a cry, dropping the knife with a thud as she pulled a larger hunting knife from her boot.

"Protect Mac," she hissed. "I don't want him to see what's about to happen."

Deacon nodded, returning to MacCready's side. Whisper was right. With all the chems still flooding his system, there was a good chance that he'd still think Lori was Lucy. He covered the mercenary's eyes with his hands, blocking his view of the fight.

Whisper charged after the patchwork woman, her blade shimmering reddish-purple in the dying sunlight as it swung downwards. Lori dodged, catching the other woman in the face with her switchblade. Whisper screamed in pain, her left cheek damp with blood, but she did not relent. If anything, the pain seemed to focus her, to make her fight back even more viciously.

"Deacon, what the fu...uh, what's happening?" MacCready asked, trying to pull the spy's hands away from his face. "Why won't you let me see?"

"Sorry, Mac. Whisper's orders." The spy thought for a moment. There had to be a way to distract MacCready, to keep him from panicking. "Hey, Mac, did I ever tell you about the time I became best friends with a yao guai?"

The mercenary groaned, still struggling against Deacon's grip. "Not another one of your stupid stories," he complained.

"You're gonna love this one. Promise!" Deacon sighed dramatically. "Let's see...it was a few years back, when I was tracking down a lead in Salem. Dez hadn't been in charge for very long, and so I'd only just been allowed back into the fold. Anyways, things went south, and next thing I knew, I was left for dead in a scrap heap just behind the Witchcraft Museum. That's when I met Bearnadette."

He glanced over at Whisper, who swept Lori's legs out from under her with a frantic kick, sending the patchwork woman tumbling to the ground. Whisp straddled the other woman, trying to keep her pinned down. "Just surrender, and I'll let you go!" Whisper hissed.

"Like hell!" Lori replied, swinging her blade up. Whisper caught her arm, pinning it above the other woman's head on the ground. Unfortunately, the movement destabilized her, and with a vicious buck, Lori managed to wiggle out from between her legs. She punched Whisper in the head repeatedly until the agent's grip on her knife arm weakened. With a triumphant cry, the patchwork woman scrambled to her feet, kicking Whisp in the face. Whisper recoiled with a wail of pain, clutching her torn cheek.

Deacon cleared his throat, turning his attention back to MacCready. "She wasn't exactly my type, you know, since she was a bear, and I was, well...me. But given the circumstances, I was just glad she didn't eat me. I definitely thought she was going to when she plodded over to me, growling."

Whisper curled away from Lori's feet and rolled towards her, knife at the ready. She plunged the blade into the back of the other woman's boot. Lori screamed in agony as blood dripped from the torn leather.

"I told you," Whisper panted, "I don't want to hurt you. But I will, if you make me. Please, just give up."

"Never!" Lori spat. "Not until I get my revenge. I was promised revenge."

"I tried to play dead," Deacon continued. "I thought maybe I'd get lucky and she'd leave. But she licked my wounds clean, dragged me back to her den. It took a while, but I eventually realized that she wasn't interested in eating me. That bear saved my life." He smiled as he felt MacCready start to relax. "It took me a while to recover, but she brought me food every day and kept me warm at night. Eventually, I got stronger, and it was time for me to track down the guys who ambushed me. You should have seen the look on their faces when I rode into their camp on Bearnadette's back, a laser pistol in each hand." Deacon laughed. "I've never seen raiders run so fast."

Whisper caught Lori by the bandoleer and threw her against a large rock formation, knocking the wind out of her. Whisp towered over the smaller woman, both of them drenched in blood and sweat. "Give...up...already," she wheezed, her blade gripped tightly in her right hand. "I don't...want...to kill you."

"Too...bad," gasped Lori, her pied skin parting in a sick smile, "because I really, really want to kill you." She lashed out with her blade, catching Whisper across the chest. "I'm going enjoy ending you!" she snarled. "Maybe I'll even take those pretty freckles of yours, if there's enough left to save. Once RJ's been punished enough, the doctor says he'll make me a new face. A better one. I wonder if he'll give me yours."

"Sorry, it's not for sale." Whisper whimpered in pain as a thick line of blood grew across her ruined shirt. "You bitch! I just repaired this shirt!" She grabbed Lori's wrist, twisting it until the joints gave way with a sickening pop. The smaller woman wailed in agony, dropping the knife.

"So...you care more about...agh...the shirt than you care about RJ?" Lori asked, mustering a smirk. "You might be...as heartless as me."

"No," Whisper snorted. "But I'll admit, it's kind of the last straw. You murder almost two dozen people, torture one of my best friends, and then you come for my favorite shirt? It's like you want me to kill you."

"But I...I didn't kill those girls."

"I don't believe you," Whisper snarled. "You certainly seem capable of it. And what kind of sick bitch bathes in people's blood?"

Lori's eyes widened. "What? No, that's...I never enjoyed that. It's disgusting, but the doctor...he said it would make the scars heal faster. I've only ever wanted...vengeance."

"Haven't you had enough vengeance?" Whisper asked. "Hasn't MacCready suffered enough?"

"No. And if you care about him at all, you'll finish me off," Lori hissed. "Because if you don't, I'll just wait for a chance to kill RJ again. And this time, I'll make sure you aren't around to stop me.

"I really wish you hadn't said that," Whisper sighed, stabbing downward. Deacon closed his eyes as the blade connected with Lori's throat, but that did nothing to drown out the sounds of gurgling, gasping, wheezing death as it came for her. He clutched MacCready's head to his chest, covering the mercenary's ears as best as he could with his body. For all that Lori had done, MacCready didn't deserve to hear his wife die all over again. Dragging sounds followed, then a splash, and finally, a sickening thud.

"Whoa now!" Nick called. "You okay there, doll?"

Deacon looked to see Whisper passed out on the ground, Nick already injecting her with a stimpack. No trace of Lori remained, save for a bright splattering of blood on the rocks nearby. "Stay here," he told MacCready before racing to her side. "Whisp?" he asked, patting her uninjured cheek gently. "Hey, can you hear me?"

Nick shook his head. "She's down for the count, I'm afraid. We've got to do something about her injuries, and fast."

Deacon tore his shirt off, offering it to the detective. "Here. For bandages."

Nick sighed. "I meant we should keep her comfortable while the stim does its job, you ninny. Still, I guess it's not a terrible idea to bind her wounds. You got any alcohol to soak the fabric in?"

Deacon nodded, pulling a half-empty bottle of moonshine from his pack. "We should get Mac's arm too. Everything else is scabbed over already, but we're going to need to wash the wound out first so the Voodoo doesn't cause an infection. You don't want to know what they make that stuff with. You get to work on Myra. I'll take care of Mac."

He returned to the mercenary with a couple stims, a strip of stained white cotton, and a can of purified water. "Hey, buddy," Deacon said softly. "This is gonna hurt, but we'll get you cleaned up in no time."

"You...oww!...never finished your story," MacCready whimpered as Deacon cleaned the grisly wound on his arm. "What happened to...argh!...to Bearnadette?"

"Well," Deacon replied with a smirk, "I asked her to marry me, of course. A woman like that, you don't just let her get away. She growled at me, which I think meant yes. We had a happy life together for a while, until she left me for another yao guai. I was invited to their daughter's baptism last year, so there's no hard feelings."

MacCready grimaced as Deacon applied the makeshift bandage. "Thanks. Deacon. That was a pretty good story."

"And every word's true." Deacon added, grinning. He injected Mac with the first stimpack, and the mercenary hissed in annoyance.

"Damn it, I hate those things."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, Mac," the spy said gently, "but there's more where that came from. That woman did quite a number on you."

"You can say that again," MacCready groaned, clutching his head. "Everything's...really blurry."

"Yeah, that's the Voodoo," Deacon muttered. "You'll be seeing unicorns and demons for a while. But hopefully it'll wear off soon. By tomorrow, all you'll have is one hell of a headache."

MacCready looked up at the spy, his deep blue eyes suddenly serious. "Deacon. I...I almost died today."

"Yeah." Deacon gulped. Now that the immediate danger was over, the reality of the situation hit him like a sack of cement. They'd come so close to losing Mac, and even though it had turned out that it wasn't Deacon's fault, he still felt responsible. If he'd only paid closer attention, the people who took MacCready wouldn't have had an opportunity. His stomach churned as he thought about all the horrors they'd seen in the Grave, everything that woman had done to him…

MacCready touched his arm softly, startling the spy. "But I didn't," he continued. "You guys had my back. Thanks."

"Any time, buddy," Deacon replied, squeezing his hand. "Any time."

* * *

"Oww! What the fuck, Nick?" screamed Whisper as she came to. "That stings like a bitch!"

"Sorry, Myra," Nick replied, capping the moonshine he'd splashed on her face. He wrapped the side of her face carefully, trying to avoid catching her skin in his metal hand. "I don't know why you even bothered with the knife," he muttered as he finished. "That tongue of yours is sharper."

"I know, I know. It's not very ladylike," Whisper sighed. "Tell me something my father didn't, why don't you?"

"I think he and I would have gotten along," Nick mused.

"Definitely. He was a cop."

Nick froze. "Wait, around here? What was his name?"

"Martin Taylor," she replied. "He was the sheriff over in -"

"Nahant," Nick finished. "I should have figured you were Marty's kid. You look enough like him. Well, I'll be."

Whisper stared at the synth. "You remember my dad?"

"I'll admit, the details are a little fuzzy," Nick replied. "But the old Nick, yeah, he knew him all right. They weren't exactly close, but they worked together a couple times. Always thought he was a pretty stand-up guy." The detective laughed. "What are the odds? Two hundred years, and I'm out here chasing down criminals with you, of all people. Guess some things never change."

"Yeah…" Whisper sighed. "Where's Mac? Is he okay?"

Deacon waved her over. "We're over here. He's...well, he's a little more stable. We need to get him to a doctor, and soon."

Nick helped Whisper up, and she limped over to MacCready and Deacon, leaning on his shoulder. "How are you holding up, Mac?" she asked, easing herself down beside him with a pained gasp.

"I'll admit, I've been a lot better," MacCready replied with a low groan. "Whatever Lori...ugh...it sure packs a punch."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you look like crap," Whisper joked.

"Yeah, it really doesn't," the mercenary replied. "And you're not looking so hot yourself."

Whisper frowned. "Those chems must really be messing with your vision. I always look hot."

MacCready blushed brightly. "That's not...I...come on, Myra! That's not fair."

Deacon chuckled. "I think it's safe to say that I'm the best looking one here."

Whisper rolled her eyes at the spy. "I've been meaning to ask. Why the hell aren't you wearing a shirt?"

He grinned. "Well, I thought it'd be fun to go streaking through the Commonwealth after you got better, but I may have gotten a little ahead of myself."

"Right," MacCready muttered. "As if you needed an excuse."

"Hey! I'm not that easy," Deacon replied, laughing.

"So, Myra," MacCready asked softly, ignoring the spy, "did you mean it?"

"Did I mean what?" Whisper replied.

"What you said to Lori? That I'm one of your best friends?"

She chuckled, patting his hand. "Hell yes I meant it. What, do you think I'd go through all this crap for just anyone? Please. You're not exactly the employee of the month, Mac."

"I'm not?" he replied with a slight smile. "But I'm not even making you pay me. That's got to count for something, Myra."

"I don't pay Preston, either," she replied. "Or pretty much any of you, now that I think about it. I guess that means we're all friends, huh?"

Nick cleared his throat. "I told you, Myra, I'll be sending you an invoice."

"Okay," Whisper said, chuckling. "Nick and I aren't friends. But you, Mac? Deacon? You guys absolutely are my friends. And I don't care what kind of trouble you get yourselves into. If I can help, I'll be there every time. I promise."

"That's great and all, and we can have a great big group hug later," Deacon muttered, trying to ignore the blush that warmed his ears, "But how are we getting out of here? I mean, between you and Mac, we're not exactly walking out of here. And for all we know, Lori's gang is still out there."

Whisper sighed. "Do you think we can make it back to the river? I saw a few boats upstream that we can probably get back to working condition."

Deacon shook his head. "I can't believe I'm about to suggest this, but now might be the time to call that vertibird. Nick and I will make ourselves scarce. Don't worry about us."

Whisper nodded. "I'll see you back at HQ when I can, Deacon. Be safe."

"You too," he replied. Deacon turned to Nick. "Come on, pal. Let's go let our people know what we found."

"Yeah...guess we should," Nick replied. "I'm not buying it, though. All those girls, and for what? One psycho's revenge? No way. There's more to this. There's got to be."

Deacon sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You're right. I don't think Lori was the only one pulling strings around here. If nothing else, we need to find that surgeon. But right now, I'm completely fried. I need a good meal, some new clothes, and a full night's sleep. We can tackle the rest of this case tomorrow, can't we?"

Nick chuckled. "You make it sound like you want to work together on this."

Deacon shrugged. "Well, my partner's down for the count."

"What do you know?" the synth replied. "So's mine. Well, I guess we'll just have to make do."

"Geez, talk about a downgrade," Deacon retorted. "Well, I guess you'll make a decent sidekick."

"Forget it, pal," Nick muttered. "If anyone's the sidekick here, it's you."

"Oh yeah?" Deacon teased, "Tell you what? First one to crack the case gets to be in charge."

"I'll take those odds," the detective replied with a smirk. "Myra, take care of that merc of yours."

"I will!" she replied. "Now get out of here before I activate the signal. I'll send word through Radio Freedom when we're safe."

"Oh boy!" Deacon said excitedly. "My very own message on Minuteman FM! There's another one off the bucket list!"

Whisper grinned at him, wincing as the movement irritated her torn cheek. "Just...ow...just make sure you tune in, okay?"

"You bet, Whisp." With that, he turned towards the setting sun, Nick Valentine at his side. There was a tourist's homestead nearby, and if they were lucky, that meant food, water, and shelter. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of taking Nick along to visit one of his contacts, but he had to admit that the detective was pretty handy to have around. Maybe Deacon was starting to get used to the idea of having someone to watch his back, he thought with a grimace.

When they were a good distance away, Deacon turned back towards the spot they'd left Mac and Whisper. A plume of red smoke drifted above the crest of the hill, catching the breeze and billowing about in strange patterns. He smiled slightly. Whether he liked the means or not, at least the two people he cared about the most were safe. With them out of the way, the spy would be able to do what he needed to do without driving them away. Whoever was responsible, whatever their motives...they were going to pay dearly.


	10. The Steel Cage

**10\. The Steel Cage**

_Myra and MacCready are taken to the Prydwen to heal. Maxson tries to strengthen Myra's tenuous relationship with the Brotherhood._

* * *

A wave of nausea washed over MacCready as the vertibird took off. Flying was bad enough under normal circumstances, not that he was afraid of heights or anything. It just wasn't exactly natural, clipping through the sky at ridiculous speed the way the Brotherhood's aircraft did. The stupid things didn't even look like they would fly, built like a fat bird with stubby wings. But fly they did, and on this particular occasion - though liftoff made the mercenary's head spin - he was extremely grateful for the fact.

It was difficult to keep his eyes open, between the agony of his injuries and the aftereffects of whatever chem Lori had dosed him with, but MacCready did his best, fighting against his weariness desperately. In the back of his mind, he dreaded losing consciousness. What would he do if he fell asleep, only to wake back up in that awful shack with Lori leaning over him, tormenting him? He couldn't go back there, not again.

In a way, he was strangely grateful for the nausea. It gave him something to focus on, true. But more importantly, it made the flight feel real. All the times he'd escaped in his mind, he'd felt relieved, pain-free. His churning gut rooted him in the moment, helped him believe that this time, he'd finally made it out. Myra and Deacon really had come through. He was safe.

He looked over at Myra, who was sitting next to him on the bench in the back of the vertibird. She had an arm around him, and the gentle warmth of her touch soothed the dark corners of his mind, sending stray thoughts of guilt and sorrow fleeing for deeper places. She was looking out the side of the craft, her eyes focused on the landmarks that drifted by below them. Her green eyes seemed distant, haunted somehow, but why he could not be certain.

It was rare that he had much of an opportunity to contemplate the woman who'd hired him all those months ago, who had somehow stopped being his boss and had become his friend. She was a curiosity to the mercenary. MacCready had never worked with someone like her before, someone who really seemed to care about the well-being of the people who worked for her. Sure, he'd had the occasional kindhearted boss who'd toss in a few extra caps at the end of a job. And he'd even worked for a few people he almost trusted. But the majority of the time, he'd worked for complete dirtbags, consoling himself with the knowledge that caps didn't care where they came from. They fed his family all the same.

MacCready tried to remember the job he'd been on, the one where Lori's brother had been killed. It could have been any number of operations he'd been part of, and that realization horrified him. It wasn't like he was in the business of asking people for their life stories before he shot them. He was a hired gun. He followed orders, did his job, and got paid. It was a pretty simple arrangement, and he liked it that way. It made some of the guilt he'd otherwise feel diminish somewhat. He was a weapon. His bosses pulled the trigger.

But he'd never expected to meet someone like Lori, a survivor mad with grief. She didn't care who had given the orders, or what the circumstances were. All she saw was the death of someone she loved, the hole in her life where her brother should have been. No amount of justification could protect him from her, or from the reality of the sins he carried. MacCready knew he had blood on his hands, knew what a massive debt he owed. And now, more than ever, he was ashamed of what he'd become after leaving Little Lamplight.

Myra shifted slightly, her eyes narrowing. "That's not…"

"What's up?" MacCready asked nervously.

"Hang on. I'll find out. Hey!" she exclaimed. "Farfield! This isn't the way to Sanctuary."

"That's correct, Knight," the pilot replied. "I have orders to take you to the Prydwen . Elder Maxson himself insisted on it."

"What?" she cried. "Why would he do that?"

"I didn't ask. Perhaps you should ask him yourself, when you see him."

Myra sighed. "Trust me, I will." She turned to MacCready with an exasperated smile. "Well, looks like we're taking a detour. Don't worry. I'll make sure Cade takes care of you. Civilian or not, you're one of my men, and unless Maxson wants a war with the Minutemen, he'll have to let Cade treat you."

MacCready groaned. "In case you forgot, I'm not actually a minuteman."

She rolled her eyes. "So what are you then? Our mascot? Face it, Mac, you've been a minuteman since the second you gave me back those caps. Now, I won't make you wear the oh-so-fashionable khakis Preston's got everyone in, and you don't have to take a rank unless you want to. But like it or not, you're part of something bigger than yourself now, and I have a feeling that it'll actually be good for you. Still, it's your choice. You can still walk away at any time, if you decide you'd rather fly solo. I won't resent you for it. For now, though, until we're back on solid ground, you're a minuteman."

MacCready pulled away from her comforting touch, sputtering in protest. "If you really think you can just -"

Myra's gaze was piercing, insistent. "Just play along. Please. It's the best way I have to protect you."

The mercenary stared at her through swollen, bleary eyes. It didn't make any sense. Of all the bosses he'd ever had, she was the only one who'd never made demands, never forced him to follow her every whim. Myra had tasked him with a number of things, but she had never ordered him to kill or to even protect her. Every time he'd found himself fighting for her, it was of his own volition. It wasn't for money. It hadn't been for a long time. He wanted to work for her because she was someone he could respect...and even stranger, because she respected him. How long had it been since anyone had treated him with that kind of dignity?

"You're really something else," he said softly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spring from his eyes. Stupid chems.

"Don't I know it?" Myra replied with a cheeky grin. "Now get some rest. I have a feeling that this isn't going to be a pleasant visit."

"With the Brotherhood of Steel?" MacCready retorted. "No, I'm sure Maxson will be waiting with tea and cookies. Maybe if we're lucky, there'll be little sandwiches."

Myra snorted. "Oh my God. I would pay good caps to see that. I'll bet he even holds his pinky out."

Lancer-Captain Farfield cleared his throat. "Knight, I know you're not disrespecting the Elder back there."

She chuckled. "Only a little. Don't worry, sir. I'll behave." Myra sighed, patting her shoulder. "I know you probably don't want to, given what you've been through. But if you can, try to get some sleep. I'll be here the whole time. No one's going to hurt you, Mac. I promise."

He nodded, carefully lowering his bruised head onto her shoulder. "Coming from you," he murmured, "I almost actually believe it."

* * *

MacCready wasn't sure when he'd drifted off, but the next thing he knew, he was lying in an unfamiliar bed, the hum of machinery echoing through the room. He cried out in alarm, struggling to sit up.

"Hey!" Myra exclaimed, her hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you're okay. I'm here."

"What...where…" he muttered. His head was throbbing and heavy, something pulsating behind his eyes as he heaved violently into the metal bucket she held for him.

"You're on the Prydwen , in the medical bay," Myra continued. "Cade said you might get sick from all the stims we had to give you. Not to mention the withdrawal. We still have no idea what that chem really was. Deacon seemed to know, but…"

"How...how long was I out?" the mercenary managed, wiping bile from his mouth.

"A couple hours," Myra replied. "We had to keep you under to fix your arm. Lori really did a number on you. I won't go into details, mostly because I only understood about half of what Cade said. But the good news is that you'll be able to go home in a few days. If there aren't any complications, you should be back to normal in a couple weeks."

MacCready shook his head. "I...Myra, I don't think I'll ever get back to normal. Not after this."

She scooted her chair closer to his bed, taking his hand in hers. "I know it seems that way. And I won't pretend to know what you're going through. But I know you, Mac. You're a fighter. What Lori did...that's just another thing you're not going to let stand in your way."

"I hope you're right," he replied, squeezing her hand. "But what she said about me? It's true. I'm a killer. I've taken so many lives...and not all of them deserved it. I don't know if I can ever make up for that."

Myra nodded. "I know how you feel. Ever since I woke up, it seems like I've been forced into doing so much killing. It's scary how easy it's been getting. Sometimes, I worry that I'll forget how terrible it all is, that I'll forget the value of the lives I've taken."

"Myra," the mercenary sighed, his eyes meeting hers, "that's not going to happen. You're...you're not like me. I don't think it's possible for you not to care."

She laughed bitterly. "Well, if that's true, things are going to suck for me, aren't they?"

He smiled weakly. "Probably. But hey, the world needs people like you. The rest of us...we need you. Someone has to remind us that we're human. That being human means something. If we lose that, well, we might as well stop trying."

Myra blushed. "Well, I think you're giving me too much credit, Mac. And not enough to yourself. You do care about people. I've seen it. You're not just a mercenary without a conscience, even if that would be easier. If that were the case, what Lori said about you wouldn't bother you so much."

"I guess," MacCready replied. "Maybe we can just...talk about this later. I really feel like crap."

Myra chuckled, taking his bucket. "Let me go get you a clean one," she murmured. "Try and get some more sleep, if you can. Your body needs time to heal."

"Don't give me that," he muttered. "You should be resting too."

"Unfortunately, I've got stuff to do," she replied. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Well, just don't let that happen too soon, okay?" MacCready sighed.

"I'll do my best," she said softly, retreating from the room.

MacCready groaned, slowly lowering himself back down on the hospital bed. He hated being confined to bed like this, unable to move or even think clearly. Not that he particularly wanted to think, mind. All the same, there was nothing worse than being completely helpless, especially in a place like the Prydwen , the Brotherhood's great big dick in the sky.

He remembered when construction had begin on the airship, all the resources the Brotherhood had "liberated" from the people of the Capital Wasteland. And for what? A big show of strength? It was disgusting. People were starving to death, and Maxson and his army were just flaunting their excess in front of everyone. The Prydwen represented everything he hated about the Brotherhood. It was all just so unnecessary.

After what felt like an eternity, an unfamiliar man walked into the clinic with Myra in tow, sighing heavily. "Knight, what did I say?"

Myra rolled her eyes. "You said I was allowed to leave, Cade."

He shook his head. "I said you were allowed to leave if you took someone with you. Your equilibrium is still out of sorts. What were you thinking, wandering off alone like that? You're lucky you didn't fall off the flight deck! It's a good thing Initiate Stevens was there to catch you."

"I just wanted to get some fresh air," she replied. "It's so stuffy in here…"

The man frowned. "Sit down, Larimer. That's not a request. You're lucky I don't strap you down after that stunt you pulled last month. But far be it from me to punish you when Elder Maxson won't."

Myra huffed. "It's not my fault. The Minutemen needed me."

"Yes, of course," the man continued. "But you tore out your stitches, didn't you? Don't forget, that scar's your own fault. Had you remained on bed rest like I'd told you to, it would have healed better."

Myra snorted. "Yeah, but scars are hot."

Her companion sighed. "You certainly do seem to believe that, given how many you've collected." The man turned to MacCready. "Ah, good. You're finally awake. I'm Knight-Captain Cade, chief medical officer."

MacCready shook his hand. "MacCready. I work for Myra. You must be the one who patched me up."

Cade nodded. "I'll admit, I don't usually get to deal with knife wounds. Bullet holes, certainly. Lots of crushing damage. But knives aren't as common. You must have really pissed someone off."

"You have no idea," the mercenary replied.

The doctor took MacCready's injured arm in his hands, looking it over critically. "You're fortunate," he said softly. "Another couple hours, and we might have had to take the arm. Whatever you were drugged with was pretty septic. Not to mention the damage to your muscles...it's a small miracle that we were able to do as much as we did."

MacCready frowned. "You're making it sound like my arm's permanently damaged."

Cade sighed. "I'm afraid that very well might be the case, Mr. MacCready."

"Are you serious?" Myra exclaimed. "You didn't tell me that!"

"It's not exactly your business to know, Larimer," Cade replied coolly.

"Like hell it's not!" she retorted. "Mac's one of my Minutemen, which means I have every right to know what his condition is! Don't tell me you keep pertinent medical information from Elder Maxson, Cade, because I know better."

The doctor nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry...It's sometimes easy to forget that you're in charge of anything," he continued under his breath.

"What's that?" Myra asked.

"Oh, nothing," Cade replied. "Anyway, yes, there is a possibility that Mr. MacCready's arm will never fully recover. I've done what I can, but even stimpacks won't repair nerve damage. There are some tests we can try to see how bad the damage is, now that he's awake. Can you feel this?" the doctor asked, squeezing MacCready's arm.

"Oww!" MacCready cried as a surge of agony tore through his arm. "Yeah, I can fuc...um, I can feel it, all right."

"Well, that's a good sign," the doctor said. "Now, can you bend your arm for me?"

The mercenary moved his arm carefully, wincing as a tingling sensation ran the length of the limb. He was able to bend it about three quarters of the way before the sensation became too much and he had to stop.

Cade frowned slightly. "That's a good first try. It may take a while for your muscles to regain their strength. We can work on it later. Any discomfort?"

"Yeah. There was this tingling, burning feeling," MacCready replied. "It was pretty unpleasant."

"That's to be expected." Cade jotted a few things down on his clipboard. "With an injury like this, all we can do is give it time."

MacCready grimaced. "What does that mean, doc? Am I going to be able to shoot a sniper rifle, or not? That's kind of important."

The medic sighed. "I'd give it a few days before you try," he said. "And don't be frustrated if it takes a while."

"Don't be frustrated?' the mercenary exclaimed. "I need to be able to shoot. That's how I make my living."

Cade smiled sadly at him. "I promise, we'll do everything we can. But even if you regain the full use of your arm, there may still be permanent tremors. You may have to deal with the possibility that your sniping days are over."

MacCready's mind reeled at the doctor's words. He'd never considered what his life would look like if he wasn't able to hold his rifle steady any more. The mercenary had always figured that he'd die with his rifle in his hand, one way or another. Who would he even be, without his trade? It was a future too bleak to contemplate. "That's not going to happen," he growled. "I'm not quitting that easily."

"Good," Cade replied. "That's exactly the attitude you need to have. I won't lie to you, Mr. MacCready. You've got a hell of a fight ahead of you. But if you work hard and take care of yourself...let's just say I've seen more miraculous things in my life. Here," the doctor continued, offering the mercenary a small white tablet, "for the nausea. I'll be back to check on you once I've finished my rounds at the airport." He turned to Myra. "Larimer, stay put until I get back, won't you?"

Myra sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Thanks," MacCready said, popping the tablet into his mouth and swallowing it dry. "Hey, is it okay if I smoke in here?" The doctor's eyes widened in horror, and MacCready laughed weakly. "Sorry, doc. I couldn't resist."

"Next time you ask me to help one of your soldiers, Larimer," Cade muttered, shaking his head, "I really should just say no." He left the room, still muttering under his breath.

"Thanks!" she called after him before turning back to MacCready. "He's full of shit. You'll be fine, Mac. I promise."

"I'm not so sure he is, Myra." MacCready grimaced, trying to bend his arm again. It was frustrating how weak he was all of a sudden. What if Cade was right, and this was permanent? How would MacCready be able to provide for his family? How could he protect his friends? He yelled in frustration, throwing his head back on his pillow. "This can't be happening!" he moaned.

"Mac, please," Myra begged. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear. But we'll get through this. Even if the worst happens, you're still a valuable member of my team, okay?"

"Don't," he growled. "Don't treat me like I'm a fuc...like I'm a child, Myra. I hate it when people talk down to me. No one needs a sniper who can't hold his gun steady, and that's the truth."

"Maybe not," she soothed, "but that doesn't mean that I don't need you. You've done so much for the Minutemen, haven't you? And how much of that required you using a gun?"

MacCready thought for a moment. "Well, technically, all of it. I mean, there's the cooking and the gardening, but like hell am I going to just sit on my butt and do stuff like that. Not when we're trying to stop the Institute. Face it, Myra. You need a sniper, not a housekeeper."

She chuckled. "Just for that, I'm telling Codsworth that you'll be replacing him when we get back to Sanctuary."

"You wouldn't!" MacCready exclaimed. "He already hates my guts!"

"Well, then, stop thinking so damn negatively and just try your best to get better, okay? I hate seeing you like this. If you don't tease me mercilessly, Mac, who the hell will?"

He grinned at her. "I mean, there's always Deacon."

Myra sighed. "Yeah, but you know how he is. It's all fun and games until suddenly it's not. You're way more predictable."

"Oh, really?" MacCready replied with a smirk. "I don't think anyone's ever called me predictable before. You must have me confused with Danse."

She laughed. "Like that would ever happen."

"Why, because I'm not ridiculously tall and I have a sense of humor?" MacCready joked.

"I actually think he does have a sense of humor," Myra mused. "It's just...unusual."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself. I'm telling you, Myra, that guy's as dry as Marcy's cornbread. But hey, I guess that's just your type."

Myra blushed. "My type? Really? You're going to start in on me too?"

MacCready sighed. "I mean, come on. It's really obvious you've got feelings for the guy. I don't see the appeal, but..."

Myra shook her head. "It doesn't matter, does it? I already told Preston, I'm not looking to fall in love with anyone. I'm still grieving."

"Yeah, I heard about that. But Myra, love doesn't work that way. You don't always get to pick the timing. Believe me, I know."

She rolled her eyes. "That's easy enough to say. But how can you love someone when you're still hung up on the past?"

MacCready frowned. "Look, I'm a terrible example, so take the advice I should be following, okay? You don't have to forget Nate or what he means to you. If he was worth being in love with in the first place, he'd want you to be happy. Don't waste the chance to be with someone you care about, Myra. Give me hope that it's possible to move on."

Myra sighed. "Or, you know, you could just move on by yourself, Mac."

He chuckled. "Tell you what. You figure out how, and I'll take notes."

"Wait. You know how to write?"

"I…" he scowled. "Are you kidding me? Of course I know how to write!"

Myra laughed heartily. "Hey, I don't know. I've never seen you do it. For all I know, you could be totally illiterate."

"Yeah?" he retorted with a chuckle, "well, has anyone told you yet that your face bandage makes you look like a cross between a mummy and a pirate?"

Myra scowled, touching her hands to the bandage that covered her left cheek and eye. "It does not!"

"All you need now is a hook and a stupid crown," he continued, smirking. "I'll bet Deacon would be happy to get those for you. See? He has his uses."

She threw up her hands. "Forget it! I hate this. Go back to being miserable. I'm going to go find Maxson."

"Didn't Cade say not to -"

"Aww, screw Cade. He's not my boss," she retorted. "I'll be fine. You just rest, okay?"

MacCready sighed as she left. He wondered how long it would take before she was dragged back to the clinic again. Stubborn woman.

* * *

Time passed so slowly in the infirmary that MacCready wasn't sure if it had been minutes or hours before his doldrums were interrupted again. An imposing man in a long, brown leather coat wandered into the clinic, steely eyes sweeping the room until they fixed on the mercenary.

"You," the man said gruffly. "Have you seen Knight Larimer?"

MacCready shook his head. "Not in a while, at least. Why? Is something wrong?"

The man frowned. "Not exactly. She was supposed to meet me on the command deck to go over her plan for…" his eyes narrowed. "Wait. You're MacCready, aren't you?"

"That's what they call me," the mercenary replied. "Unless I've been lied to all of my life. Who's asking?"

"You haven't changed at all, have you?" the man asked. "I'm Elder Maxson."

MacCready grinned. "I thought so! I couldn't be sure, with that squirrel that died on your face, but I thought I recognized that grimace!"

Maxson sighed. "I'd say it was good to see you, but I thought you'd have found a hole to die in by now." His eyes swept over the mercenary's beaten body. "From the looks of things, you nearly did."

"Like I'd die before I got a chance to tell you off," MacCready hissed. "You were such a nice little kid. What the heck happened?"

"You should ask your friend Gautier," Maxson replied, his eyes icy. "It's her fault that things turned out this way."

MacCready chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds like Heather, all right. Look, I know you two have history, but that's no justification for your actions over the last few years. Surely you can't still blame her for leaving. She had her reasons, and as far as I'm concerned, they were pretty good ones, too."

Maxson sighed. "I'll believe it when I hear them from her."

The mercenary shook his head. "Well, I'm pretty sure that's never going to happen. At least not after Rivet City. No matter how you try to justify your actions, Maxson, you pissed a lot of people off when you stole that power plant, Heather included. No matter how badly you'd like her to return to the Brotherhood, there's no way she'd ever work for you now."

The Elder's eyes lit up. "So you have been in communication with Gautier. I knew she was still alive! Perhaps it's a good thing that Knight Larimer seems to have taken you under her wing after all."

"Leave Myra out of this," MacCready growled. "She's a good woman. You know she deserves better than to be just another pawn in your misguided crusade."

"Calm yourself. She's hardly a pawn, MacCready," Maxson replied. "You and I both know she's far more valuable than that. And no matter what you might think of me or of the Brotherhood, I can promise you that we mean Larimer no harm."

MacCready scoffed. "Right. Your intentions are peaceful, and all that jazz. You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing that."

Maxson sighed heavily. "I don't expect to convince you with rhetoric. But answer me this: is the Commonwealth really better off without the Brotherhood? Who here has the strength to restore order and civilization, if not us? The Minutemen? No offense, but how long do you think it will take before infighting and petty squabbles make your citizen-soldiers turn on each other? Or do you place your hopes in the Railroad?" Maxson shook his head. "They're a glorified terrorist organization that values the well-being of mechanical abominations over human lives. The Brotherhood is the Commonwealth's best chance at stability, whether you like it or not."

"Maybe, but what's the cost?" MacCready retorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Maxson. You may claim to care about the fate of the Commonwealth. And maybe if Elder Lyons was still in charge, I'd believe you. But you're not Owyn Lyons. From what I can tell, all you're really after is power. Prove me wrong."

"I-" Maxson's reply was cut short as Myra stumbled into the infirmary, clutching at the wall. The Elder ran to her side, catching her before she fell. "Larimer! If you can't even stand, what are you doing out of bed?"

She smiled up at him. "Thanks, sir. Sorry. I was looking for you, but I got all turned around. I'm still not used to this ship."

The Elder sighed, helping her to her chair. "Maybe if you spent more time here and less time getting hurt, you'd have learned how to navigate the halls by now. If you'd told me that your condition was so poor, Knight, I would have agreed to meet you here."

"I'm sorry, sir," Myra replied sheepishly.

"It's quite all right, Knight," the Elder said. "At least you're safe."

"So did you want to go over the mission again, or…"

Maxson shook his head. "That can wait until tomorrow, Larimer. But last time we spoke, you promised to tell me more about life in the Old World. Do you think you have time to discuss it now?"

Myra chuckled. "Until you let me go home, Elder, I have all the time in the world. What do you want to know?"

"I've read what I was able to find on the subject," Maxson replied, "but what exactly was college like?"

Myra stared at him in confusion. "Really? I thought you'd want to know about how blenders worked or something."

"Technology may be the heart of the Brotherhood's mission," Maxson replied, "But it's not my only interest. From what I've been able to learn, college was an important rite of passage for many people before the Great War. And you're the only person I've ever met who actually experienced it. Naturally, I'm curious."

"Well," Myra said as he pulled up a chair and sat next to her, "college was kind of a busy time for me, since I was pre-Law. I know a lot of people in other majors had way more free time."

"Other majors?" Maxson asked, enraptured. "You mean, people were allowed to study whatever they wanted?"

"Well, sure," Myra continued. "History, Biology, Theatre, Business...basically anything you could want to learn. Of course, not everyone got to choose what they went into. I had a friend whose parents forced her into pre-Med, even though she wanted to be a dancer." She sighed. "I wonder what happened to her."

Maxson nodded. "I understand what it's like, you know. Being forced into a role because of your family."

Myra smiled. "And what would you be, if you weren't the leader of the Brotherhood? If it's okay for me to ask." Maxson leaned in close to her, whispering something in her ear. Myra's eyes widened, and she laughed. "Are you serious?" she asked. "I...huh. I guess I could see that."

"Don't tell anyone," he said gruffly. "That's an order."

"I promise I won't," she replied. "But only if you show me something sometime."

"I suppose that's fair," Maxson said. "But enough about me. I read that college students sometimes joined brotherhoods of their own. Is that true?"

Myra laughed. "Well, not exactly the way you're thinking. Let's see, how do I explain this…"

MacCready listened on as Myra explained what she remembered about life before the war. It was strange, seeing Maxson so relaxed. Even as a child, he'd had a strange intensity to him. But there was just something about Myra that seemed to have a calming effect on everyone she met.

He thought about the woman he'd met in the Third Rail , drunk and self-loathing, but somehow still charming in her way. She'd changed over the last few months, he thought. Or perhaps, she had simply become herself again. Maybe the woman he'd met wasn't Myra at all, not really. She'd been a husk, an afterimage burned on the side of a building by radioactive fire. This person, the one talking to Elder Maxson like he was her equal, meeting his eyes without fear...she was almost whole again.

In a strange way, seeing Myra like this gave the mercenary hope for himself. Like her, he'd been hollow for a long time. Loss upon loss had compounded inside him, carving away the man that lived there. He'd been going through the motions for so long, fueling himself with booze and cigarettes, desperate to keep moving so he wouldn't have to face the heartache of losing his wife, his fear of losing Duncan. Had he forgotten himself somewhere along the way?

All he knew for certain was that it was good to see her healing. He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that she gave him hope for himself. They'd both seen the person they thought they'd spend the rest of their life with cut down in front of them. But whereas MacCready was weaker than he cared to admit, Myra was much stronger than she realized. It was no mistake that she was the leader of one of the most important groups in the Commonwealth. If she only realized that, there would be no limit to what she could accomplish.

No wonder Preston had fallen so hard for her, the poor bastard. Myra really was something special, exactly the kind of person who could change the world if she set her mind to it. All she needed was a push in the right direction, and the support of people who believed in her.

Unfortunately, he thought as he watched Maxson hanging on her every word, there were plenty of other powerful people who'd take advantage of her kind nature, her lack of self-awareness. He hated that the Brotherhood had its claws in her, even though he respected Danse and owed the man his life. Myra's growing fondness for the Paladin was bad enough, but her friendliness with the Elder was truly worrying. If he managed to win her completely over, the Commonwealth was truly in for darker days ahead.

* * *

Eventually, Cade returned, shooing Maxson out of the infirmary. "Sorry, sir, but it's getting late. Our patients need their rest."

"We'll talk tomorrow, Larimer," the Elder said. "If you're up for it, I'd like to go over your plans for this next mission. I want to make sure you and Danse are adequately prepared for travel to the Glowing Sea."

"Of course, sir," Myra replied. "Good night."

The Elder turned to MacCready. "For what it's worth, MacCready, I hope you recover well."

"Yeah, yeah," the mercenary replied. "I'll feel a lot better once I'm back on the ground where I belong."

Maxson sighed, shaking his head as he left the room, his coat swishing behind him as he strode purposefully towards his quarters.

Myra turned to MacCready. "What happened between the two of you, anyway?" she asked.

MacCready grimaced. "It's a long story. Just...I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but don't trust him, Myra. Maxson might talk a good game, but there's only one person he cares about, and that's himself."

Myra frowned. "I think you're wrong about him, Mac. He's flawed, sure. But he's a good man."

"Maybe," the mercenary replied. "But if that's true, I certainly haven't seen it."

Cade sighed as he approached them, a tray full of bandages and antiseptic in his hands. "I'd prefer it if you didn't speak ill of our Elder while under his care, Mr. MacCready. What you do off this ship is your business, but around here, things like that might get you hurt, and you're injured enough. Now, we should change your bandages. Larimer, you first."

MacCready watched as the doctor carefully peeled the cloth bandage from Myra's face, slowly uncovering her wound. He felt a twinge of guilt as the weeping, irritated skin was exposed. The knife wound had been deep, slicing through her face diagonally from the bridge of her nose to the base of her jaw. Her eye, fortunately, had been spared, but the blade had come dangerously close to it. As it was, the wound was definitely going to scar. And it was all his fault.

It pained him that Myra had been put in danger for him again. It was bad enough the last time, when she'd jumped between him and the assaultron that Winlock and Barnes had turned loose. But now, only a short time later, she'd protected him again, adding another scar to her collection on his behalf. What sort of hired labor was he, that his boss had to save his life so often? It was embarrassing, if not completely shameful.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Myra, I...I'm sorry."

She frowned. "What for?"

He gulped awkwardly, trying to find the right words. "You hired me to protect you, but all you've ever done is protect me. I'm sorry."

She winced as Cade applied antiseptic to her cheek. "Mac, I'm not upset with you. We're friends, remember? I'd take another dozen knives to the face if it meant you were okay. That's what friends do."

Cade sighed. "That's admirable, Larimer. But as your physician, I'd recommend not taking any more knives to the face if you can help it."

"You know what I mean," she replied. "Anyway, you don't owe me a thing, Mac."

The mercenary shook his head. "I told you, I don't take charity. I'll think of a way to pay you back. Just wait."

"Well, when you do," she said with a smile, "try to make it something nice, like a card or dinner or something. I'll be pissed if you get yourself hurt to even the score."

MacCready blushed slightly. "Well, I mean, dinner I can do. But geez, Myra. It'll have to be the best meal I've ever cooked to make up for everything you've done."

Myra laughed. "Well, I can't wait to eat it, if that's the case. But just work on getting better first. You can make it up to me after you're well."

MacCready nodded as Cade finished with Myra and began to inspect the mercenary's injuries. "Oh, you know I will. After I'm done, you'll never be able to eat anyone else's food, and that's a fact."

"I look forward to it," she replied. "Now, Cade, if I'm allowed, I'd like to sleep in my own bunk tonight."

The physician nodded. "Once I've finished with your friend here, Knight, I'll escort you to Senior Paladin Danse's quarters."

Myra frowned. "Danse's quarters?"

Cade sighed. "It's on Elder Maxson's orders, not mine. Since Danse isn't here, he thought you might be more comfortable having a private place to recuperate. But if you'd rather sleep in the barracks, I can technically overrule him as your doctor."

Myra shook her head. "No, that's fine. I just hope Danse doesn't mind."

MacCready smirked. "Something tells me that's not the part he'd have a problem with."

"Oh, shut up, Mac!" Myra replied. "Just get some rest, okay? It's only for a couple days, and then we'll be back in Sanctuary."

"Yeah, if Maxson lets you leave," he grumbled under his breath.


	11. The Sea of Ghosts

**11\. The Sea of Ghosts**

_Myra seeks closure before she and Danse enter the Glowing Sea. _

* * *

Spring had officially come to the Commonwealth, bringing life to the wasteland. In Sanctuary, grass had begun to regrow, muted and yellow, but alive all the same. The air was filled with the fragrance of hubflowers and other wild blossoms drifting in from the nearby forest, the laughter of Renata and the other children echoing between the reclaimed buildings like birdsong. The farmers down by the river had planted fresh crops in the softened ground, and green shoots had begun to peep through the soil. Soon, fresh tatos, melons, and more would join the meal rotation, supplementing winter's carrots, gourds, and grain.

Paladin Danse smiled as the warm sun fell on his face, enjoying the sensation. He stood outside Myra's house, his still-sore body cramped in an old suit of power armor Sturges had refitted for him. Apparently, Myra had fought a deathclaw in the thing, which explained all the dents. Danse would have paid good caps to see that fight.

Ever since Myra and MacCready had returned from the Prydwen, Danse could sense that something had changed in both of them. He didn't ask what had happened. The bandages and solemn looks told him more than enough. Whatever had transpired on Myra's rescue mission, it had affected both her and the mercenary in a myriad of ways.

While MacCready had mostly retreated to the Last Minuteman-where he'd taken up semi-permanent residence-Myra spent more and more time alone at the Red Rocket station, only coming home to check on her companions every few days. Danse had gone out to the station to visit her only once. As he'd approached, cold and shivering in the early spring rain, he could hear her weeping bitterly behind the closed door of her small bedroom. The art studio was full of half-realized pieces, tormented faces crying out from behind panes of frosted glass. The Paladin had considered knocking, but something made him hesitate. Myra had chosen to be alone. It wouldn't be right to disturb her, even if her seclusion was unusual.

More than a week had passed like this, until one day, Myra had returned to Sanctuary without ceremony. She'd simply walked into her house, packed up all of her old mementos, and locked them away in the nursery. And that had been the end of it, until today.

"Hey," called a soft voice from behind Danse, and he turned to see Myra herself. He held his breath as he looked at her, a vision in elegant black. He couldn't recall ever seeing her in a dress before. She'd even taken the time to brush her hair and apply a little bit of improvised makeup. Danse's mind conjured an image of her wedding pictures, of the beautiful, carefree housewife she'd been. For once, she almost looked the part again.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"As ready as I'm going to be," she sighed. "I'll admit, I'm pretty...well, I'm not sure exactly. I'm not nervous, I don't think."

"It's natural to have...conflicting emotions at times like this," Danse offered, holding a hand out which she grasped readily. "But I promise, I won't leave your side. We can take as long as you need."

Myra shook her head. "I've waited long enough," she replied, her voice cracking. "I see that now. What Mac's going through...I realized the other day that I could be the same way, if I let myself."

Danse frowned as he thought about the mercenary. The young man had barely left his room at Marcy's bar since he and Myra had returned, and not just because of his injuries. MacCready was quieter than he'd been, less full of boundless sarcasm. In fact, there was a deep sadness behind his eyes that hadn't been as present before. He'd always been a drinker, but now it was rare to see him without a glass of something potent in his hand. It was worrying, but not unexpected. Whatever MacCready had been through, it was clearly horrible.

"What do you mean?" Danse asked, concerned.

Myra shook her head. "Just...seeing him like this makes me worry that holding on too tightly to Nate, to who I was…" she cleared her throat, squeezing Danse's armored hand tightly. "I guess I'm starting to see how that could be a weakness. And I can't afford to have weaknesses. Not until I get Shaun back."

The Paladin nodded. He didn't quite understand what she was saying, but what he did get made sense. "Grief can sometimes blind people," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean that you have to forget."

Myra snorted. "I don't think I could forget him if I wanted to, Danse. Nate was…" She sighed sadly. "Well, he was Nate. I think I'll always love him in some way. And that's not a bad thing. But survivor's guilt...that's the real enemy, isn't it?"

Danse thought about his own guilt, the names and faces he carried with him. Dawes. Worwick. Brach. Keane...Cutler."Affirmative," Danse agreed. "In my experience, nothing is quite as painful."

"That's what I want to put behind me," Myra continued. "Not Nate. But the way he died...I know there wasn't anything I could do. Still, I can't help but think that I should have taken Shaun into the cryo chamber with me, instead of leaving him with Nate. If I had, Kellogg would have killed me instead."

"Perhaps he would have," Danse replied. "But he didn't. You're still alive. And you haven't given up."

"Yeah," she agreed. She stared off towards the hilltop for a long moment, the gentle breeze playing through her silvery hair like the fingers of a lover as she bit her lower lip, trembling slightly. Her emerald eyes were distant, misty, as she contemplated the abandoned vault that sat above them, cold and empty. Finally, she turned to Danse, a sad smile on her face. "Shall we go? I don't want to waste the good weather."

Danse nodded, and they set out for the bridge that connected Sanctuary to the forest and the craggy hills beyond. It was an easy walk, but they took it slow all the same. After all, Danse was still getting used to being in power armor again, and while Myra's injuries had mostly healed, she still fatigued easily.

"Thanks for agreeing to come with me," Myra said softly as they crossed the narrow creek. "I wasn't sure you would."

Danse gazed down at her, his eyes resting on the gauze bandage that still covered a good portion of her left cheek. His heart twinged as he thought about the wound beneath, the deep new scar that would never fully heal. He knew it wasn't his fault that he wasn't there to fight beside her, but still, he hated seeing her injured. Every time it happened, he felt like he'd failed her somehow. He knew he couldn't protect the young woman under his charge from every danger the Commonwealth had to offer. Life was brutal in the wasteland, after all. But every time Myra gained a new scar, it seemed to Danse that those idyllic summer days before the War grew just that much more distant. Even as he swelled with pride at the warrior she was becoming, his heart ached for the peaceful suburban life she'd left behind. This world was changing her irrevocably, and there was nothing he could do but help her endure the metamorphosis.

"You don't need to thank me, soldier," he replied finally. "I need the exercise anyway if I'm going to readjust to wearing power armor."

"How's the T-45 treating you, by the way?" Myra asked. "I know it's not as nice as your old suit, but Sturges said he'd be done painting up your new one in a few days."

"It's not ideal," Danse muttered, "but all the same, thank you for letting me borrow it. I feel...more like myself, I suppose."

She nodded, smiling up at him. "You look more like yourself, too," she replied. "It's good to see. I've been worried about you."

Danse considered telling Myra how worried he was about her as well, but decided against it. Today, she didn't need a lecture. She needed support. And that, he would happily provide. "That's hardly necessary, Larimer," Danse said. "I have no intention of dying before we rescue your son. I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it."

Myra chuckled, wincing as the laughter stretched her healing cheek. "If it were anyone else, I'd call bullshit on that. But you really are that stubborn."

"I'll have you know, stubbornness is one of the most important qualities a Brotherhood soldier can possess," Danse retorted. "That's why I knew you'd make a fantastic part of our team. I've never met anyone as obstinate as you are once you've set your mind to something. Not even Elder Maxson can best you there."

The Knight smacked his armored arm playfully. "Don't let him hear you say that, Danse. You know how sensitive he is."

"Affirmative," the Paladin replied with a slight smile. "But even so, I'll bet he'd agree with my assessment."

Myra's grin faded as they approached a break in the trees. The woods parted to reveal a small glen, the gentle perfume of hubflowers wafting on the breeze. There, a small cemetery had been built, headstones fashioned from salvaged steel and concrete from Sanctuary marking the graves of those poor souls who had never emerged alive from Vault 111, as well as the final resting place for those few who had died since the settlement had been founded.

"Sturges told me that the settlers cleared out the vault a few months ago," Myra said softly. "They'd wanted me to be here, but I guess the old cryo systems finally broke down completely. It was find a place to bury the dead, or let the whole vault reek of rotten flesh. I'm glad they made the right call." She stopped before a particular stone, gesturing Danse over. "Here he is," she whispered.

It was a simple marker, just a rectangle of concrete with the name CPT Nathaniel S. Larimer etched into it. Myra knelt in the dirt and placed her hand on the top of the headstone, bowing her head in prayer as Danse looked on in silence.

The Paladin wasn't sure how long she remained like that, bent over her husband's grave, but he had no intention of rushing her. Instead, he took the opportunity to think of those he'd lost along the way, all the bodies left unburied. Laying the dead to rest wasn't usually the Brotherhood way, after all. In combat, they rarely had much of a chance to recover remains. It was policy to grab the holotags off of fallen soldiers, and those were delivered to the members of the Order of the Quill, who would record the names of the honored dead.

Danse hadn't been to a real funeral since Sarah, the last Lyons, was laid to rest at Arthur's insistence. He still remembered the way Maxson had stood, his young face a stony mask as Sarah's body was buried in the courtyard of the Citadel she'd loved so much. Even at the tender age of thirteen, the boy who would be Elder did not weep, at least not in public. Only the subtle trembling of his lower lip had betrayed the immense grief within.

Myra was much the same. She did not cry over Nate's grave as she prayed. Her tears had been shed before, in secret. Instead, she greeted her late husband with quiet dignity. In spite of the occasion, Danse was immensely proud of her. Every day, Myra grew stronger. It was incredible to witness.

Finally, Myra looked up, smiling sadly at the Paladin. "Danse," she said softly, "I'd like you to meet Nate. Nate, this is Senior Paladin Danse. He's been helping me find our son. I...I wanted you to know that I'm still looking for him. That I haven't given up. That I'm not alone."

Danse saluted the grave, wincing slightly as he overestimated the force it took to move his arm in Myra's old armor, hitting his chest with a resounding clang.

Myra snorted softly, but continued speaking. "I wish it was you, here, Nate. Not me. I'm not the soldier you were. If it were up to you, I'm sure the Institute would already be destroyed. But I'm doing my best, and I have a lot of good people helping me. You can rest easy, now. I promise."

She pressed her lips to the top of the headstone before withdrawing, leaving a large gold ring where her hand had been.

"Goodbye, handsome," she whispered. "I love you. I'll always love you." With that, she walked away, finding a seat on an old bench that the settlers had dragged under a large tree nearby.

Danse watched her leave before turning back to her husband's grave. He wasn't quite sure what to say. After all, he'd never met the man. He knew Nate only from pictures and the stories Myra had told him. But she had loved him, had promised her life to him. It was only right that the Paladin acknowledged that. "It's an honor, sir," he said finally. "I'll do my utmost to keep her safe. You have my word."

With that, he turned and followed Myra, armor clanking in the stillness of the glen as he walked quickly to her side. She smiled as he fell in beside her, taking his armored hand in hers. "Thank you, Danse," she murmured. "I...I'm glad it was you with me today."

He blushed slightly as her words sunk in. What did she mean by that? "You...I...I'm always here for you, Larimer," he managed finally, squeezing her hand gently. He closed his eyes as the cool spring breeze caressed his face, letting the stillness of the afternoon flood over him. There was a peace to the world in that instant that he had rarely experienced, as though all the weight that had been holding him back was lifted, just for a moment. Was this what things had been like before the War? He smiled faintly before releasing Myra's hand. "Let me know when you're ready to head back to town," he continued. "We can stay as long as you'd like."

Myra shook her head. "I could stay here for weeks, I think, and I still wouldn't be ready. The only thing I can do now is move forward." She stood slowly, groaning in pain as she gripped her stomach.

Danse frowned. "Is your knife wound still bothering you?"

She nodded. "Yeah. But it won't hurt forever." With that, she turned and walked back towards Sanctuary. Danse fell in beside her, keeping an eye out for danger as they made their way back to the bustling settlement.

Fortunately, the rest of the day passed without incident. Neither Myra nor Danse made any attempt to break the quiet stillness of the afternoon, and it seemed as if the rest of the world was content to leave them be for once. Even the normal dinner rush at the Last Minuteman was fairly quiet. All the same, Danse was grateful when Marcy ushered the pair to a private room in the back.

"What's this for?" Myra asked the fearsome barkeep cautiously.

Marcy sighed. "Look. I know we don't get along. But still, I know what you did today, General. After losing Kyle...I just thought you might want some privacy, okay? I can't have you crying in front of the other customers. It'd be bad for business."

Myra nodded. "I understand. Thanks, Marcy."

"Just don't think we're friends or anything now," the other woman snarked, retreating from the room.

Myra smiled. "I think she's starting to like me, Danse."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that," the Paladin replied, eyeing the strangely molded meat slathered in thin, gray gravy that sat in front of him. "She may be trying to poison us both."

"Well, no wonder a lot of people are eating at home tonight," Myra joked. "I forgot it was ratloaf night. At least she left us plenty of wine to wash it down. Can I pour you a glass?"

Danse shook his head. "You know I only rarely indulge in alcohol, Larimer. If we're attacked, I can't afford to have dulled senses."

Myra sighed. "Come on, Danse. Just one glass."

He nodded. "Very well. But only a small one." After Myra poured the heady, blood-red wine into their cups, Danse raised his. "To Nate Larimer, and all our honored dead," he said softly.

Myra smiled. "To Nate," she echoed quietly, her eyes misty. She took a small sip of the wine, grimacing slightly. "Well, it's better than the last bottle Marcy gave me, but not by much. We really need to start a winery, and soon."

Danse frowned. "Aren't grapes effectively extinct?"

"Yeah, but I'll bet we can use other fruits. I'll bet mutfruit is fantastic fermented. The biggest issue is going to be yeast. Who knows what strains survived the war?" Myra thought for a moment. "There's got to still be wild yeast, or people wouldn't be able to make moonshine. All we'd need to do is set up some open-air vats and see what happens. I'll talk to Sturges about it in the morning. Just think! The Minutemen could make our own alcohol!"

"I'm not convinced that's such a good idea," Danse cautioned. "It may be difficult to maintain order if alcohol becomes too readily available in this settlement. Your Minutemen are understaffed as it is."

"True," Myra conceded, "but I'm sure we could work something out. Besides, if it works, think of the income! It'd be a great investment."

Danse sighed, taking a sip of his wine. He coughed slightly as the harsh, astringent taste hit his tongue. "This wine is truly atrocious," he grumbled.

Myra laughed. "Exactly my point. There's no way we'd make worse stuff than this."

The Paladin had to admit that she had a point. He took a small bite of his dinner, frowning as the gamy meat slid down his throat, leaving a greasy trail behind. It was almost enough to make him miss eating in the Prydwen's mess.

Myra's emerald eyes sparkled in amusement as she watched him struggle. "Danse...your face. I've never seen you grimace quite like that before."

"I'm pleased that my discomfort amuses you, Knight," Danse muttered, draining his wine. "This may be one of the most revolting things I've ever eaten."

Myra sampled a bit of her own meal, groaning in disgust. "Did she even season this at all? I know salt isn't the easiest thing to come by this far inland, but I know we have a spice merchant in town."

"Not any more," Danse replied. "He packed up and left soon after you did. Perhaps Ms. Long's supply has run out."

Myra frowned. "That's the third merchant we've lost. I wonder where they're going. As far as I've heard, none of our other settlements have been seeing a boom in commerce. I'll have to ask the Foxes if they've heard anything."

"I believe your man Cato is in town," Danse said. "Ignatius told me that he and Renata are continuing on to the Castle tomorrow. Apparently Lieutenant Davis has been getting impatient."

"I can't really blame her," Myra said softly. "I know what it's like, being separated from your child for so long. I'll make sure to give them some extra supplies for the journey."

Danse nodded. "If the Castle wasn't so far out of our way, I'd suggest that we join them. But it will be far more efficient for us to just head south until we reach the Glowing Sea. Have you decided what you're going to do for radiation protection?"

Myra sighed. "I know you're going to suggest power armor, Danse. But I'm just not comfortable in it."

The Paladin frowned. "I understand your hesitation, Larimer. And I don't want to order you to do something you're not comfortable with. But the Glowing Sea is beyond dangerous. There's a reason no one goes there, and it's not just because of the high radiation levels. I've heard reports of all manner of strange things. I just…" he sighed. "I just want to ensure your safety. It doesn't matter if we find this Dr. Virgil or not if you're not alive to question him."

Myra grimaced. "You have a point. I guess the best way to deal with my fear is to face it, right? But I'm bringing us each a hazmat suit, just in case."

Danse smiled. "Outstanding. I was going to suggest that we bring a backup option as well. Preparation is our greatest ally, especially when we're about to venture into the most dangerous place in the Commonwealth. Who knows what all that radiation will do to our power armor?"

Myra chuckled as she sipped her wine. "How mad do you think Sturges is going to be when I tell him he needs to adjust the frame on the T-45 again?"

"I will undoubtedly be making preparations elsewhere when you ask him," Danse replied.

"I didn't take you for a coward, Danse," she teased.

"I'm hardly a coward, Knight. I'm simply being pragmatic. There's a lot we have to accomplish over the next few days, and if we divide up the labor, we can expedite the process. I know you're as eager to get out there as I am. I've been stuck in Sanctuary for too long."

"Well, that's what you get for nearly dying," Myra said softly. Her smile faded, and she poked at the food in front of her. "Danse?" she asked.

"What is it, Larimer?" he replied.

"Can you just…" she sighed, not making eye contact. "I appreciate all that you've done for me," Myra continued, "but I want you to promise me something."

Danse stared at her, confused. "If it's in my power to agree to, Larimer, I'll consider it. What do you want?"

"Just, can you promise that you won't risk your life for me like you did at the Castle again?" Myra asked, looking up with wide, worried eyes. "I don't know if I could handle it if you died because of me, Danse. If it comes down to it, I want you to save yourself."

The Paladin shook his head, frowning. "I can't agree to that. As your commanding officer, It is my duty to keep you safe. I would gladly spill my blood if it meant that you would survive."

"And I would do the same for you!" Myra exclaimed. "I won't let you play the martyr, Danse. You're no good to me dead."

His eyes widened at her emphatic words. "Larimer, I…"

"Promise me, Danse," she continued. "Promise that you'll survive. I won't take you with me unless you do. I can't…" Her eyes welled with tears. "I can't lose you."

Danse froze. "I...I had no idea that our friendship meant so much to you," he murmured awkwardly.

"Yeah. It actually does." Myra sighed. "Look, I know I've taken a lot of stupid risks lately. But I realize now that I was only acting that way because I couldn't let go of the idea that I wasn't meant to survive. That Nate should have lived, instead. But I have reasons to be here now, and not just to save Shaun. I have Deacon, Mac, Preston...I have you. I want to…" she thought for a moment. "I want to enjoy the life I'm beginning to build here, I guess. And it wouldn't be nearly as great without you in it."

Danse blushed, looking away from her. "I...I don't know what to say. No one's ever told me anything like that before."

"Maybe they should have," Myra continued. "I know you just want to keep me safe. But the best thing you can do for me, for all the people who care about you, is to worry about yourself a little more and me a little less."

"I can't promise it will be easy, but I suppose I can try," the Paladin muttered. "However, you need to make me a promise as well, soldier."

"Of course," she replied.

"It will be substantially easier for me to keep my promise to you if you agree to take fewer risks," Danse continued. "You have to stop behaving so erratically. Listen to me when I'm trying to teach you important lessons. And most importantly, do try to behave like a Brotherhood soldier more often."

Myra chuckled. "Maxson scolded you too, huh?"

Danse nodded. "Apparently, your questionable behavior has been raising quite a few eyebrows. You have to be more careful, Larimer. You have no idea what consequences your actions could have not just for you, but for me, and even for Elder Maxson."

"I'll do my best," she murmured, "but only because I don't want to make you look bad. I might not love all the regulations and shit, but I know how important they are to you."

Danse sighed heavily. "Larimer, if it was just because of my personal preferences, I would not even be asking this of you."

"I know," Myra replied. "I'll try harder, I promise."

"That's all I ask," he said. "Now, I don't know about you, Larimer, but if I'm going to be able to finish this poor excuse for a meal, I may need more wine to wash it down."

Myra laughed. "Agreed. Here, let me pour you another."

* * *

The next few days were a flurry of activity as Myra and Danse prepared for their mission. Hours blurred together from frantic days to restless nights, until finally, the morning of their departure arrived.

Myra grimaced as she eyed herself in the bathroom mirror one last time, her fingers ghosting over the jagged scar that ran the length of her cheek. "Damn it," she hissed. "I really hoped it wouldn't look so bad." She turned to Danse. "It's awful, isn't it?"

Danse wasn't sure what to say. It pained him to see her lovely freckled skin marred by such a large disfigurement, but it wasn't as if she were less beautiful now. If anything, what the scar represented made her more lovely than ever. It was a mark that proved she wasn't just talk. She was someone who loved fiercely, who would do anything to protect the people she was close to, even if it meant putting herself in harm's way. It was a scar worthy of the kind of woman she was. But he had a feeling she wouldn't see it that way.

"It's not that bad," he said finally. "At least the knife missed your eye. Better to be scarred than dead."

Myra sighed. "That's a good point. I mean, it doesn't really matter anyway, I guess. It's not like I have anyone to look nice for any more." She stared at their reflection quietly for a moment, her emerald eyes distant as though she was watching a reflection of another time. "You know," she said finally, "the last time I stood here like this...It was the day the bombs fell. Nate and I were going through our normal routine, getting ready for the day. We were bantering, teasing each other like we always did." Her eyes met his in the mirror. "It's strange, you know. The things you think are so small, so insignificant...but knowing I'll never have those mornings with him again, I think it's stuff like that I really miss the most."

Danse held her gaze, unsure how to proceed. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it was all right that she still missed her husband. But at the same time, though he'd known his share of loss, losing a lover like that was one thing he'd never experienced. How could he help her through something he didn't know or fully understand? Finally, he placed an armored hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You're doing admirably well," he murmured. "I'm certain Nate would be proud of you."

Myra turned to face him, pulling the Paladin into a tight hug. "I meant what I said at the cemetery, Danse," she replied, her voice muffled by his power armor. "I couldn't do this without you."

"Of course you could," he said as her arms tightened around his sides. He glanced up at the mirror, blushing slightly as he took in the sight of her wrapped around his armor. Gently, he rested a hand on her back, just holding it there until she was ready to release him. It was strange, he realized, how used to all of this physical affection he'd become. When Myra had first held him like this by Swan's Pond, he'd been incredibly unnerved. Everything in him had rejected her embrace, decorum not allowing for him to do anything else. Now, could he really say that he still felt the same?

Things had changed. What had once seemed like such an intrusion was now as natural as breathing. The Paladin no longer felt alarm when Myra touched him, no longer struggled to put up walls between them. This was just how things were between them now, and even if he wanted to, Danse couldn't see a way back from what their relationship had become. It wasn't at all the professional working relationship that he'd wanted or expected...but it was somehow exactly what they both needed, and that was enough.

When they made it back to the Prydwen, Danse decided, he'd give serious thought to filling out the paperwork and having Myra transferred. He'd miss being in the field with her, but perhaps it would be worth it, getting the chance to really explore the possibilities of the fragile thing that had been growing between them, whatever form it took. On the other hand, he thought with a frown, would Myra forgive him for an action that could be seen as pushing her away? Could he really abandon their mission when they were so close to finding Shaun, even if it was for a good reason?

Myra released her hold on him, smiling softly as she looked up at him. "Thanks, Danse," she murmured. "There's no one I'd rather charge into a sea of radioactive horror with than you."

"Thank you, I suppose," he replied. "I hope this Doctor Virgil has the answers you're looking for, Larimer. I truly do."

She nodded. "Either way, it's high time we found out. Is everything packed?"

The Paladin held up her pack, offering it to her. "I made certain that we each have extra RadAway in our packs, just in case," he replied, "as well as enough ammo and provisions to last a couple weeks, if we're careful."

Myra frowned. "I really hope we aren't in there for a couple weeks," she muttered, taking her bag.

"Agreed," Danse said. "However, we have no idea what we'll be facing inside the Glowing Sea. Our compasses might not work there, or perhaps the terrain will be largely impassable. It is far better that we go in prepared for a longer stay."

"That's true," Myra replied. "Thanks for thinking of that."

Danse smiled slightly as he secured his own pack. "I've already radioed for our vertibird. Lancer-Captain Kai will be meeting us in Spatha near that old ranger cabin on the other side of the river."

"I guess we shouldn't keep her waiting, then," Myra sighed.

They left the house, heading towards the Sanctuary gates. As they neared the Last Minuteman, MacCready slid up to them, his smirking face still discolored with yellowed bruises.

"Aww, you two are leaving already?" the mercenary slurred. "We were just planning on throwing you guys a goodbye party! I mean, we probably won't see you again for like, months, right, General?"

Myra laughed, smacking the brim of his cap down over his eyes. "And miss out on watching you drink yourself to death, MacCready? Hah! I wouldn't dream of it! I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise!"

The mercenary muttered something under his breath before pushing his cap back into place. His eyes met Danse's, and the Paladin frowned as he saw something he couldn't identify lurking behind the man's smile. It wasn't quite hostility, but something about it felt like a warning. "Danse, you take care of her, okay?" MacCready said. "Myra trusts you. Don't let her down."

The Paladin nodded. "Affirmative, civilian. I promise, she'll be as safe as possible as long as I'm by her side."

"Guess that'll have to do." MacCready stumbled slightly, pulling Myra into a tight embrace. "Myra, thank you. I know you wanted to help, but your face...you still got hurt because of me. Again. I'm gonna do everything I can to make it up to you."

She hugged him back, grimacing slightly. "Mac, if you really mean that, maybe start by easing up on the booze, okay? You smell like the floor of a distillery, and Cade said you need to take care of yourself if you want your arm to heal."

He pulled back with a sigh. "Deacon's right, My. You're no fun."

Myra chuckled, "Oh, so it's My now, huh? What happened to Boss? I kind of liked that one."

"Start paying me again, and I'll call you whatever the hell you want," he replied, grinning.

"Tempting," Myra replied, "but unless you've got a spare hazmat suit, I'm gonna have to take a rain check. Danse and I are going to the Glowing Sea, remember? And besides, I heard you don't like travelling with Brotherhood soldiers."

MacCready frowned. "I don't. But...I donno. When you get back, think about it, okay? I'm not sure how much help I'll be, not with…" he held his damaged arm up, frowning at his hand as it trembled violently. "But I think I need a distraction."

"Well, in that case, Mac," Myra replied, "you're on deck for the next mission, okay? Whatever it is, you can come."

Danse sighed heavily. "Larimer, are you certain? Given his condition..."

"I've never been more certain, Danse," she replied, pulling herself up on her tiptoes. "Besides," she whispered, "look at him. He needs this. You know he does."

The Paladin nodded. "Very well, but he'll have to follow my orders. I won't risk letting him get in the way."

"Mac, is that fair?"

The mercenary grimaced. "Fine. But remember, Danse, I don't work for you. I work for My. If it's your life or hers, I'll save her. Are we clear?"

Danse nodded. "I completely understand. I would do the same."

Myra rolled her eyes. "Can you two idiots just agree not to get yourselves in any more life-or-death situations? I'd rather we all live through what's coming, okay?"

With that, she turned on her heel and headed for the gate, where Sturges waited in her power armor. Stubborn as she was, Myra refused to wear the suit until the last possible moment, so the poor mechanic had agreed to transport the heavy armor to the rendezvous point himself. It never ceased to amaze Danse what people were willing to go through on Myra's behalf, but he supposed he wasn't much better. The Paladin couldn't think of a single thing he wasn't willing to do for her.

"Goodbye, Sanctuary," Myra said softly as the three of them left the settlement behind. "You were a good home, for what it was worth."

Sturges stopped in his tracks. "You are coming back, aren't you, General?" he asked, muffled by the suit's helmet.

"Yeah," Myra replied. "But not to stay. Whether I like it or not, Sanctuary's not my home any more. It's just where my ghosts live. And I need to try living again."

The mechanic sighed. "Well, I can hardly blame you for that. Lord knows, with what you've been through, it's amazing you've stayed as long as you have, really. But if you ever change your mind, you'll always have a place in Sanctuary, no questions asked. We'll keep your house for you, just like you left it."

"You're too good to me, Sturges," Myra said with a warm smile. "But please, if anyone needs a place to stay, let them live in my...in that house. Or tear it down and build a new one. I don't need a creepy shrine to me in the center of town."

"General," the mechanic replied, his voice cracking, "I can't do that! Don't you realize what you mean to us? To all the people you've given a safe place to live? Some people even pray to you, you know."

Myra grimaced. "Brian, please tell me you're joking."

"Like I would joke about that," he replied. "They call you the Woman Out Of Time, or I've also heard some people call you the Mother General."

"I'm just a normal woman," Myra protested. "Can't we stop them? That's ridiculous, and quite frankly, kind of offensive. If they want to pray for help, why can't they pray to God or Our Lady instead? Hell, I'll teach them the rosary myself if it'll put a stop to this madness."

Danse sighed as he listened to her protests. It reminded him of a similar argument from a few years prior. Arthur had found out that the West Coast Brotherhood had been forced to contend with a smattering of cults that worshiped the Last Maxson as a god-like figure. Danse had never seen his friend as furious as he was when he'd heard the news. He'd ordered them to suppress his worshipers immediately, and had even threatened to jump from the Prydwen's foredeck without armor, if only to prove that he wasn't divine.

But as Danse suspected would be the case with Myra's devotees, all this had done was provoke an even more fervent reverence for the Elder. Eventually, Arthur had learned to ignore the cults, and Myra would have to learn the same lesson. "Larimer, stop," Danse ordered. "I know it's unpleasant, but if you really stand for the freedom of the people, you'll have to get used to the idea that sometimes people make poor decisions. The best response is to just let it go."

She sighed. "You're probably right." Myra turned to Sturges. "I'm sorry for getting so angry. If it really means that much to people, you can leave my house there. But don't let anyone build a chapel or anything in it, okay? That's really not okay."

Sturges nodded. "I'm sorry, General."

"It's not your fault, Sturges," Myra replied. "I just don't understand people. I guess I never really did."

As they neared the rendezvous point, Danse noticed that the vertibird was already waiting for them. "Sturges," he said, "you can leave the armor in the passenger bay. Thank you for agreeing to Larimer's ridiculous request."

The mechanic removed his helmet, grinning. "I'll admit, I just wanted a chance to give her a proper goodbye." He pulled Myra into a tight hug, and she squeaked anxiously as her feet left the ground. "Come home safe, General. Even if it's not to stay. Preston will flay me alive if your armor fails, so take care of it."

"Noted," she gasped, hugging Sturges back. "Sanctuary's in your hands, Brian. If you need anything, make sure you talk to Cato. I'm not sure our radios will work in the Glowing Sea, but he'll be able to send word to Preston."

The mechanic nodded, setting her down and hurrying off to the vertibird to readjust the armor for Myra's frame.

Danse sighed heavily as that dreadful dark feeling surged in his veins again. He hated the way seeing Myra interact with other men sometimes made him feel, like he wasn't completely in control of his anger. "You shouldn't let them do that," he warned.

"Do what?" Myra asked.

"Let people touch you like that. You're too familiar with everyone," the Paladin continued. "You have to be careful when it comes to physical affection. The last thing you want is to give anyone the wrong idea. And not everyone has good intentions."

Myra chuckled. "Oh, Danse. You're being weird again. Sturges is harmless. He's a little eccentric, but he doesn't mean any harm."

"Still, I...It's not exactly fitting. You're the leader of an army, Larimer, and a Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel. You have to be more careful with how people perceive you. Decorum exists for a reason."

"I still think you're overreacting," she replied. "I understand that not everyone can be trusted. But I'm not going to be cold to my friends just because it bothers you."

"I suppose," Danse conceded. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Myra rolled her eyes. "Fine, Danse. Whatever. Can we go now?"

The Paladin nodded. "That would be for the best," he agreed.

* * *

The vertibird ride was long and quiet. After their argument outside the craft, Myra seemed sad, subdued. Danse wanted to take it back, to tell her that she hadn't done anything wrong. But the truth was, he found her openness towards everyone she met confusing to the point of aggravation. The fact that she had no problem letting people touch her...

Was there anything between Myra and the Paladin after all, if she behaved that way with everyone? He'd just been warming to the idea of a relationship with her, but how foolish would he look if he submitted the transfer papers, just to have her tell him that she didn't feel the same way as he did?

And how did he feel about her? The question had been haunting him for months. He was drawn to her, that much was certain. He'd only rarely felt as close to someone as he did to Myra. Besides Arthur, there was no one alive he trusted more. But Danse wasn't certain if his attraction to her was romantic, or merely a strong desire to protect her. That was the distinction that troubled him the most.

As far as he knew, Danse had never been in love. He'd gone on a number of dates in the past, usually at Arthur's insistence, but the Paladin had never felt a connection to any of those women. Kissing them had felt nice, of course, and he'd even found their company to be pleasant on occasion. But every time, the women he was involved with would lose interest in him, and while it was disappointing on an intellectual level, he'd never felt much of a loss in their absence. There were more important things to worry about, like helping to fulfill the Brotherhood's mission.

Myra was different. The connection they shared was electric, palpable, even if Danse wasn't sure how to define it. It bothered him to see her interact with other men in a way that he'd never been bothered before, but was it jealousy or just his desire to protect her that made him so upset? She represented something so rare, so pure to him, the youth and fragile beauty of a lost culture that he longed for. But she wasn't just an icon to hold on to. She was Myra Larimer, his comrade. His sister-at-arms. His friend.

One thing was certain, regardless of the nature of his feelings for her. Myra was important to him, and he would do anything for her. Perhaps, in the end, this was enough.

Myra cleared her throat nervously, startling him. "Danse, before we get to the Glowing Sea...there's something I want you to have."

He looked over at her, curiosity overwhelming his confusion. "What is it?" he asked.

She handed him a small, worn card, emblazoned with an image of a queenly woman holding an infant, her foot crushing a serpent beneath it. He recognized the image from several of the ruined churches he had encountered over the years. On the reverse was a small paragraph in Latin, the text too worn to read clearly.

"It's...it was Nate's holy card of Our Lady of Victory," Myra continued. "He carried it with him when he was deployed. I know it probably seems silly, but after...I just, I want you to have it. Maybe it will keep you safe too."

"I can't take this, Larimer," he protested. "It's too precious to you."

"Please, Danse. I think Nate would want you to have it. After everything you've done, all the times you've risked your life for me...It just seems right for you to have it."

He smiled gently down at her, tucking the worn card into his power armor. "Very well, Larimer. Thank you. I will treasure it always."

"Danse, I'm sorry that I-"

The vertibird jerked suddenly, throwing Myra off balance. Danse quickly caught her by the arm, pulling her tightly against him.

"Kai, what the hell is going on?" Danse bellowed.

"Sorry, sir!" Lancer-Captain Kai yelled from the vertibird cockpit. "We're getting about as close to the Glowing Sea as I can fly us. Any closer and we'll risk burning out the engines."

Danse looked down, his eyes widening as he took in the tormented landscape below them. There was a clear demarcation between the Glowing Sea and the rest of the Commonwealth, an eerie, green haze glimmering like an aurora enveloping a vast swath of land, stretching as far as the Paladin could see. Here and there, the glowing mist parted to reveal the twisted remains of man-made structures, a graveyard of civilization.

Myra gasped. "It's beautiful," she said softly.

"It certainly is," Danse replied. "But it's also quite deadly."

She snorted. "Just like me!"

Danse almost nodded in agreement before he realized what he was doing. He released his protective grip on Myra clearing his throat. "You should put your armor on. We'll have to bail out before we hit the fog if we want to see what we're landing on." He turned towards the cockpit. "Thank you, Kai. We'll call for you when we return to the extraction point."

"Good luck out there, Senior Paladin," the pilot replied. "I'm glad it's not me going in there. Ad Victoriam!"

"Ad Victoriam!" Danse and Myra echoed.

Myra who cranked open her power armor with a nervous chuckle. "That hissing noise never gets any less startling, right?"

"Are you ready, Knight?" Danse asked softly.

"As ready as I'm ever going to get," she said, climbing into the worn T-45 suit. "Oh, hell," she continued, her voice tinny and muffled within her helmet. "It's as bad in here as I remember."

"Just breathe, Larimer," Danse said calmly, slipping his own helmet on. "I'll be by your side the whole time."

"You'd better be," she retorted, her breathing labored. "I...I'm scared, Danse."

"I know," he replied. "But your son is counting on you. You can do this."

"Yeah, I...I can do this," Myra said, her voice shaking. "I can do this. I've just got to...oh, God...I've just got to jump, right?"

Danse frowned. His attempts to soothe her nerves weren't working. She was clearly too frightened to bail out. And with her armored up, there was only so much he could do to help her. He reached out his hand, taking hers and gripping it tightly. "We'll go together," he said. "Just hold on to me. I promise, I'll make sure you're safe."

Myra followed him carefully to the edge of the cabin. "We're still so high up," she murmured. "Look at how small the trees look from up here."

The Paladin gripped her hand tighter. "Larimer. Look at me. We can do this. I'm not going to let go of your hand until we're safely on the ground. You're an incredibly brave woman. You can handle this."

She nodded. "Okay, but if I break my legs, you have to carry me for the rest of the mission."

"Very well," he promised. "But that will not happen. Power armor is designed for jumps like this."

"If you say so." Myra exhaled sharply. "Let's go, before I get too freaked out."

Danse nodded, and the two of them leapt from the vertibird, plummeting to the ground below. The Paladin cringed as Myra's shrill scream of terror filled his helmet. But the shriek, like the drop, only lasted a few seconds before their feet connected with the scarred earth with a mighty boom. "Was that so bad?" Danse asked as he released his grip on Myra's hand.

She groaned in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Danse."

"It's quite all right," he replied. "Just, next time, can you try not to scream quite so loudly? My ears are still ringing."

"I'll do my best," Myra muttered. She looked towards their destination, flipping her headlight on. "Well, here goes nothing. Let's get this over with."


	12. The Turncoat

**12\. The Turncoat**

_Preston and Kestrel go to investigate a potential Institute incursion at University Point. What they find proves to be far more interesting._

* * *

Preston looked out over the Castle battlements with a satisfied smile. For how much repair work remained, the old fort was actually beginning to look defensible again. Recently-hardened concrete gave way to scaffolding about seven feet up, showing how much progress the repair crews had made. In a month or so, the main structure would once more be breach-free. But Preston wasn't satisfied with that. He'd been working with Zev on creating a set of armored plates for the outside of the Castle's walls to further repel any would-be attackers. For his part, Zev had become quite a competent armor-smith, just as long as no one was watching him work.

The Castle's garden was beginning to show signs of growth under the nurturing care of Sergeant Graves. Although the gruff old scavver had refused to join the initial liberation of the Castle, calling it a suicide mission, he and several others had joined the Minuteman stronghold once it had been reclaimed. All told, Preston had more than a dozen men and women serving at the old fort. Many had brought their families, building homes high on the battlements or around the radio tower. It wasn't exactly a conventional military base, but the Castle was uniquely a Minutemen stronghold. And Preston had to admit, it was nice to see children around, to be reminded of what they were really fighting for.

"Colonel!" Called Lieutenant Forrester over the PA system, "We've just received word from a traveling caravan that synth activity has been increasing around University Point. Shall I dispatch a team to check it out?"

"No," Preston replied into his radio. "We need a small team on this one. If there's a group of synths this close to us, we need to keep the majority of our forces here on alert. I'll go, but I need a volunteer to run backup for me."

"I'll come with you," Lieutenant Davis called, grabbing the mic from Forrester.

"Kes, isn't your daughter on her way here?" Preston protested. "You should stay."

The petite blonde scoffed. "Well, I can't let her show up to find us overwhelmed by robots, now can I? I've dealt with enough mechanical bastards in my lifetime. I won't put Ren through that."

Preston sighed. He couldn't exactly argue with her there. Besides, even though she'd accepted a rank in the Minutemen, Kestrel Davis was still very much her own woman. She had a way of getting things she wanted, and if she was determined to join Preston on his mission, she'd find a way to tag along with or without permission. "Fine," the Colonel relented. "But only if you promise to be careful. I'm not going to be the one to tell Ignatius that you went and got yourself killed because you were getting twitchy."

Davis laughed. "How can you kill someone who's already dead?"

"What?" asked Preston. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't worry about it," she replied. "I'll be as careful as I've ever been. Is that good enough?"

"I suppose so," Preston agreed. "Grab your gear and meet me by the gate. I want us to assess the threat and get back here unharmed. That means no heroics. We can't afford to lose anyone."

Davis laughed. "Good thing I'm not a hero," she replied, ducking out of Jake's way and running into the keep.

Preston shook his head as he headed down the stairs to his quarters. He'd thought Myra was a pain to deal with, but the General had nothing on Kestrel. It almost made him miss her more, as if that were possible.

Things hadn't been the same since the mission to retake the Castle, since he'd told Myra how he felt about her. Looking back, he should have known better. Those weren't the sort of feelings a man should talk to his commanding officer about, no matter how close they were to each other. While Myra had been better about staying in contact, she hadn't come to the Castle once since she'd left for the Prydwen. Was she just that busy, or were things so awkward between them now that she simply didn't want to be around Preston?

He'd hoped the distance between them would make her rejection hurt less. And in a lot of ways, it had. But now, rather than pining for a change in their relationship, Preston found himself just missing the wonderful friendship they'd had. Myra said she wanted things to remain as they had been. But how could things ever go back to how they were before Preston had opened that particular can of Cram?

The Colonel sighed, grabbing his pack from the hook beside his bed. Ready at a minute's notice indeed, he thought, chuckling to himself. He'd been keeping the bag ready for weeks, just in case Myra called him to return to Sanctuary. At least now, it meant he had what he needed to head back into the field.

"Lieutenant Stern!" he shouted down the hall.

"Yes, Colonel?" the young man's voice replied, muffled slightly by the distance.

"Davis and I are heading out. That leaves you in charge. Don't let me down."

"I won-wait. What? In charge?" The sound of frantic footfalls filled the air, drawing rapidly nearer. Zev threw aside the curtain that covered Preston's door, his dark eyes wild and his breathing heavy. "Are you crazy? You can't leave me in charge! What if something happens?"

"With Kestrel and I away, Zev, you and Jake are the highest-ranked officers we have on site," Preston explained. "And Jake's got to man the radio station. That means you have to keep things from burning down while we're gone."

The young man paled. "I...oh, no, I…"

Preston laughed, slapping him on the back. "You can do it, Zev! I have faith in you, or I wouldn't ask you to handle things."

Zev gulped. "Yes, sir. I'll do my best."

"There you go! Was that so hard?" Preston handed Zev a blue armband with the Minutemen flag embroidered on it. "Put this on, so everyone knows you're the boss, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Zev muttered, taking the cloth. "I guess I should go...um…" he looked up at Preston, his eyes wide. "I actually don't know what I'm supposed to do."

The Colonel shook his head. "Just keep an eye out for trouble. If you see any massive groups of enemies or anything, have Jake call for help. Otherwise, just answer whatever questions you can and try to keep everyone working on their projects. I promise, it won't be as bad as you think it will be."

Zev nodded, exhaling slowly. "Okay. Okay, I can do that."

Preston grinned. "Good! I know you've got this, Lieutenant."

After Zev left the room, Preston groaned. "They're all going to die," he murmured.

* * *

"...So there we were," Davis pontificated, as she plodded merrily beside Preston, "Cazadors coming in from all sides, and Arcade just whips out this plasma pistol like it's no big deal and just starts wailing on them. Like, this guy's a fantastic shot, right? Took us all of five minutes to clear the whole hive. So that's when I learned to stop underestimating doctors. Those guys will fuck you up. Especially if you're a poisonous insect."

Preston rolled his eyes. They'd been on the road for less than an hour, and this was Kestrel's third story. Normally, he wouldn't mind hearing a bit more about the woman's time out west. Preston had never left the Commonwealth, and the idea of all of these strange, faraway places fascinated him. But he was in no mood for Kestrel's particular brand of storytelling today. He had larger concerns.

If there really was a larger synth patrol in the area, what were they looking for? Were they planning an attack on the Castle, or was there something else that drew them to University Point? Preston wasn't sure which option was worse. The Castle's defenses weren't anywhere near completion. They might be able to hold off a small attack at this point, but a full assault?

On the other hand, if the Institute was looking for something in particular, that could only mean a bad time for the entire Commonwealth. It was in the Minutemen's best interest to keep whatever the elusive organization wanted as far away from them as possible. And that might escalate the impending conflict too much, too soon. Whether Preston liked it or not, the Minutemen were no match for the Institute's seemingly endless resources. Not yet, anyway.

He made a mental note to send more squads out when they were able. The Minutemen had to be a visible force if they wanted to recruit more settlements to their cause. While the militia had regained some of its former strength, there was still a lot of work to be done. And with Myra more or less out of the picture, it fell to Preston to make sure they kept their forward momentum.

Kes sighed, tapping him on the shoulder. "Garvey, are you okay?"

Preston recoiled in alarm at her touch, his train of thought shattered. "Yeah," he replied. "I'm fine. Just worried, I guess. I hope the caravanners were exaggerating, and all we're dealing with is one of the Institute's normal salvage patrols. But if they're not…"

"If they're not, we'll get to the bottom of it," the fierce woman replied, brushing a strand of bronze hair behind her ear with a lazy finger. "Before we left, I sent a message to Alerio to do some digging. If we're really facing an attack, my Foxes will put a stop to it."

Preston smiled slightly. "You have a lot of faith in your men."

"Why wouldn't I? They're the best, after all," Davis said, grinning. "Trust me, they've more than earned my confidence. With Alerio on the case, we don't have anything to worry about except for what we're going to have for dinner."

"Well, that and the fact that we still have to deal with this patrol," the Colonel murmured as a circle of brick and concrete buildings came into view. Beyond the ancient structures, he could just make out a few pieces of weathered wood scaffolding, the last remnants of the once prosperous settlement of University Point.

Preston hadn't been back to University Point since the settlement had fallen to the long arm of the Institute two years prior. His battalion, under the command of Colonel Hollis, had been among the Minutemen who had responded to the town's distress call. By the time they had arrived, there had been nothing left to save. Preston shuddered as he recalled the carnage he had witnessed, the blood-soaked fields of razorgrain populated only by the dead. Kellogg, that unholy bastard, had massacred everyone, even children, and had left the place to rot as an example to anyone who dared defy the Institute's will.

It was because of University Point that Preston couldn't think of the Institute as a boogeyman. They weren't some children's nightmare, lurking under the Commonwealth's collective bed. They weren't a supernatural force. They were simply another group of thugs who couldn't give a damn about the sanctity of human life. All their advanced technology didn't elevate them. It only made them harder to fight.

Preston sighed. One day, he hoped, he would see the Institute destroyed. They would pay for their crimes, and if he had his way, they would pay dearly. Then, finally, the people of the Commonwealth could live free from fear, could finally start building a new civilization instead of just cowering in the shell of an old one. They could stop just surviving, and start really living, working together towards a better future for everyone. That was all the Colonel longed for, and although the road ahead was longer than ever, he was determined to fight for that dream until his last breath.

"...And I've lost you again," Kestel muttered. "If I'd known you'd be this boring, Garvey, I would have stayed at the Castle."

Preston frowned, pressing a finger to his lips. "We're almost at University Point," he murmured. "Remember, we're just here to look around. Don't engage unless we have no choice."

"It might be too late for that, Garvey," Kes replied softly, pointing to the bright blue bursts of laser fire that lit up the skeletal remains of the dead settlement. "Looks like someone's already gotten the synth's attention. And from the looks of things, they're pretty screwed."

Preston groaned. "New plan. We split up. I'll take the waterfront. You come in from behind the buildings to the west. We go low and quiet until we know what we're up against. If that's not possible, we'll just have to choose good cover and take out as many as we can. We have to give whoever's in there a fighting chance."

She nodded, drawing her pearl-handled pistol. "Maria and I have got your back. Good luck, Preston."

"You too," he replied. "Hopefully whoever they're shooting at is on our side."

"Hey, I'm a big believer in the whole 'enemy of my enemy' thing," Davis said. "If they're fighting the Institute, they're friends. At least for now. We can always backstab them later."

"I'd really prefer it if we didn't," muttered Preston. He hated it when Kestrel reminded him of the tenuous nature of their partnership. The woman and her network of warrior-spies were valuable allies, and Preston hadn't given up hope that one day they'd fully integrate into the Minutemen. But from the beginning, Kes had never lied to him about her motives. She was here to secure a home for her people, a better future for her daughter. Anyone who stood in the way of that would be mercilessly eliminated, and Preston was no exception.

There was a stark honesty in Kestrel's motives, at least. In a strange way, knowing up front that he couldn't really trust her made Preston able to rely on her more. She was a little messed up in the head, and definitely light on morality, but she operated with her own logic. As long as their motives weren't in conflict, she and the Minutemen had nothing to fear from each other. The fact that she'd agreed to take a rank in the militia was a testament to that.

Preston's thoughts returned to Myra as he crept into the abandoned town. Sometimes, he wondered if her machinations were just like Kestrel's, and she was simply less honest about it. Did the General actually care about anyone or anything besides saving her son from the Institute? Were the Minutemen, the Brotherhood, even the Railroad all just pawns in her game, allies of convenience rather than true friends? He supposed it was possible. What if Myra just had everyone fooled?

But in his heart, the Colonel couldn't bring himself to believe it. Maybe it was the love he had for her that blinded him to the truth, but he couldn't help but believe in Myra's genuine goodness. She didn't just help people because it helped her. There were many times she'd shown real kindness to others even when it wasn't convenient for her. That had been what drew Preston to her in the first place, and it made him physically sick to even contemplate that her kindness might have all been an act.

The Colonel crept forward quietly, using one of the larger surviving buildings as cover. The laser fire seemed to be concentrated around the main building, a large concrete structure on the water. Preston glanced around, looking for Kestrel, but wherever she was, she was completely out of sight.

"Help!" cried a panicked feminine voice from the roof. "I'm out of ammo!"

Preston looked up, his eyes widening as he saw what appeared to be a young woman cowering behind an old air conditioning unit, clutching a small pistol. Her wavy dark hair obscured most of her face, but the Colonel could tell from her voice and body language that she was terrified.

"Do not resist," exclaimed one of the synths, their voice grating and mechanical as they rounded on Preston. "Statistically speaking, your survival is-"

The voice was abruptly cut off as the synth's head flew from its shoulders in a hail of sparks, the unit toppling over with a dull thud. Kestrel grinned at the Colonel, clutching her machete gladius in one hand and her pistol in the other. "Well, that was satisfying," she chirped. I'll distract these rust-buckets. You go get the girl."

Preston nodded. "Thanks for the save."

"No problem. Take this," she added, tossing a makeshift grappling hook to the startled Colonel. She let forth a primal scream, charging at the remaining Synths. "Come get me, you overgrown Protectrons! I've killed way tougher robots than you!"

Preston sighed as he watched her slice her way through the small army of synths. One of these days, Kestrel was going to get herself killed. How was he supposed to explain that to her men, or her daughter? Still, he wasn't about to waste the valuable time she'd bought him. He crept towards the old concrete building, readying the hook. It took him a couple tries to find purchase, but eventually, the line caught on the lip of the roof. Preston gave it a good tug to make sure the line was secure, then he began to climb.

When he reached the top, the woman approached him cautiously. Now that he could see her more clearly, Preston was taken aback. She was lovely, with gentle, soft features and dark, soulful eyes that flashed with intelligence as she observed him. She was dressed simply in an old Unstoppables t-shirt and jeans, a red bandanna loose in her hands as she quickly used it to tie back her thick, wavy black hair. "You're not a synth, right?" she asked nervously.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not," he replied with a warm smile. "It's okay. You're safe now. I'm Preston Garvey, with the Commonwealth Minutemen."

"Talise Guerra," the woman said, smiling back at him, a faint blush warming her coppery cheeks. "This is so embarrassing. I can't believe I thought I could handle this by myself. It's been so long since I've even held a gun, you know?"

"What were you doing out here?" Preston asked.

"I heard...um...that is, I was looking for scrap to sell," Talise replied. "I heard this place was a gold mine."

So she was a scavver. That wasn't what Preston had expected. She seemed too clean to make her living that way. More than that, she was hardly dressed for the occasion. She wasn't even wearing any armor to speak of.

"Well, you certainly could have picked a safer place to look, ma'am," Preston said with a friendly smile. "University Point may have been a safe haven back in the day, but after the Institute destroyed it, there's not much here but ghosts."

"And synths, apparently," Talise said. "Well, thanks for the assist. I really am glad you happened by. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't." She grabbed her pack, swinging it back over her shoulder. "Now, I've just got to figure out how to get down, and then I should get home."

"We'd be happy to take you there," the Colonel said.

"You would?" Talise's eyes brightened for a moment, but she shook her head. "Oh, no. That's definitely not necessary. Contrary to what it might look like, I can take care of myself. Thanks anyway."

Preston frowned. "I promise, you'll be safer with us that you would be with anyone else, ma'am. Are you sure you don't want any help?"

The young woman nodded, but her eyes were still wide with fear. "Yeah. It's my own fault. I knew it was stupid, but I wanted to...ugh! Come on, Talise," she muttered to herself, "keep cool. That's the secret. Keep cool."

"Colonel?" called Kes from the ground below. "Is everything okay up there?"

"We're good!" Preston yelled back. "Are you sure you got all of the synths?"

Davis shrugged. "Probably missed a few, but I'm sure they learned their lesson."

Talise shuddered. "That's no good. Oh, that's so not good. If those synths get back to the Institute…"

Preston stared at her. "What do you know about the Institute?" he asked quietly, trying to keep her calm.

"Umm...nothing," she said, wringing her hands slightly. "I mean, about what everyone knows, I guess. Should we leave? Let's leave, before they bring friends. Sound good?"

The Colonel nodded. "I don't want to force you, Talise, but I really think you ought to come with us. The Minutemen have a stronghold nearby. You can stay there until it's safe to leave. I promise, you'll be free to leave whenever you're ready."

She shook her head. "I really need to get home. My...family will be worried sick if I'm not where I'm supposed to be. I've already been gone for too long."

"They'll be worse than worried if you get ambushed on the way," Preston rebutted. "The Commonwealth's a dangerous place, especially for a woman on her own. But if you don't want our help, that's your business." He looked around for a safe route off the roof. "How did you get up here, anyway?"

"I came up the hatch over there," Talise said, pointing to an angled pair of doors. "But I tried the doors earlier, and it looks like they might have locked behind me."

Preston sighed. "Well, I guess it's back down the rope, then. Unless you want to go for a swim."

"I don't know how to swim," she replied. "So I guess we'll do it your way."

"Davis," Preston barked, "we're coming down the rope."

"I'll do my best not to look up your skirt, Garvey," Kes replied. "Tempting though that prospect might be."

The Colonel rolled his eyes. "I just thought you might want to stand clear." He looked to Talise. "Do you think you can climb down on your own?"

She nodded. "I'm stronger than I look. As long as I don't look down."

Preston nodded, heading down the rope first. "I'll wait for you at the bottom in case you slip," he said.

Talise sighed. "I'll be fine. But thank you for being so nice. It's been a long time since anyone...whoops!"

The Colonel cried out in alarm as the young woman's hand slipped on the rope, and she slid down a few feet. She cried in pain and alarm as she caught herself. "Are you okay?" Preston asked.

"Just a little rope burn," Talise groaned. "It's my fault for not paying enough attention to what I was doing." She continued slowly, carefully down the rope. Preston watched her progress, his heart in his throat. When she finally reached the ground, he rushed over to her, cupping her hands in his. The palms were rubbed raw, streaks of blood and torn skin echoing the path the rope had taken through her delicate hands.

Preston pulled a can of purified water and a bandage from his pack, carefully treating her injuries. "You should try gloves," he said. "The Commonwealth's hell on skin in the best of times."

Talise nodded. "I know. I need to be more careful. I just…" she trailed off, staring out at the water. "I just can't sit still, waiting for things to happen. Not any more."

"I won't pretend that I know what you're talking about," the Colonel replied, "but if you want to make a difference, you can always join the Minutemen. We're always looking for people who want to take a stand against the bad guys."

"Really?" she asked, her eyes lighting up. "I mean, I can't have made a good first impression. I promise, I'm not as useless as I seem. I'm just having a bad day."

Preston nodded, smiling, as he tied off her bandages. "We all have bad days. And we all have our troubles. Doesn't mean you can't make a difference."

Kestrel approached them, clearing her throat. "So, who's the damsel we just de-distressed?" she asked, eyeing Talise carefully.

"This is Ms. Guerra," Preston said. "She's a scavver."

"Scavver, you say?" Kes clicked her tongue, her gray eyes narrowing. "Yeah. Nope. She's a spy. Not one of mine, either, unless it's a really good disguise. So who do you work for, little girl?"

"I...I'm not a spy!" the younger woman protested. "Honest! At least, not any more," she mumbled.

Preston frowned. "So what are you? Institute? Railroad? No way you're part of the Brotherhood."

Talise looked at him with pleading eyes. "Don't tell anyone you met me, okay? If they find out I left my post, I'll be in huge trouble! I just...I lost someone important to me, recently. And I was going crazy, alone in the dark. So when I heard that the Institute was active here, I wanted to find out what they were after. I wanted to prove that I was useful. Or maybe I just wanted to go out fighting. I don't really know for sure. Either way, I'm not sure I want to go back."

Kes sighed. "So you're a spy and a deserter. Lovely. You should be glad you aren't one of mine after all. You'd be crucified for your cowardice."

"Crucified?" Talise exclaimed. "That's barbaric!"

"Yeah, but it's pretty effective at getting people to follow the rules," Kestrel sneered.

Preston stepped between the women. "Hey, now. No one's getting crucified here. I don't want to hurt you, Talise. I just want to know why you were here. If this was about information, I just want to know what you heard."

Talise eyed a nearby flock of birds before shaking her head. "Not here. It's not safe. I'll come with you if you want, and I'll tell you what I can as a way of thanking you for saving my life. But I'm not going to tell you anything about my organization." She sighed, her eyes downcast. "My former organization, I guess. I really don't want to go back to sitting in a musty old...I'm not interested in going back," she concluded with a melancholy sigh. "There's nothing for me there. Not any more."

The Colonel nodded. "Let's go. We can talk at the Castle."

Kestrel frowned, pulling Preston aside. "Garvey," she whispered harshly, "are you sure? She admitted that she's a spy, and you're going to bring her into our most important stronghold?"

He sighed. "I know, Kes. Trust me, I'm aware of the risks. But look at her. She's scared, and hurting. The Minutemen are supposed to be the good guys. We can't turn her away without at least trying to help. And besides, she might have information we can use."

Kestrel shrugged. "I guess. But if she betrays us, I'm going to kill her. And it won't be pretty."

Preston shook his head. "That's not the way we do things, Kes."

"Maybe it should be," Davis replied harshly. "If you want to protect the people of the Commonwealth, you've got to be willing to sometimes do the tough things. And sometimes, that means making an example of people."

"I won't be part of that," Preston argued. "Look. I'll vouch for her. If she causes us any trouble, I'll take responsibility. Is that good enough for you?"

"No offense, Garvey," Kes said with a sigh, "but you're a naive idiot. Why take a chance on someone like her?"

The Colonel grinned at his Lieutenant. "Well, I took the same chance on you, Kes. Like it or not, I believe that anyone can choose to do the right thing, if you give them freedom and guidance. That might be naive, but it's a hell of a better way to live than being an angry cynic. You should try trusting people sometime. They might surprise you."

Davis sighed, rolling her eyes. "People like you can only exist because of people like me. But fine. You can bring your new pet home, as long as you clean up after her."

Preston laughed. "As if you had a choice. Don't forget, I'm your commanding officer, even if I don't always act like it."

"So, does this mean I'm good?" Talise piped up. "Because if we're going, we should really do it soon."

Kestel nodded. "Just don't make me regret this, kid," she snarled. "You'll find I'm not the most patient woman when the people I care about are betrayed."

Talise's eyes flashed dangerously. "Neither am I. I might not...I might not be scary like you, but that doesn't mean I won't put up a fight."

Preston sighed heavily. "Come on, you two. No one's fighting anyone today. Let's just go home."

* * *

Once they had arrived at the Castle, Kestrel left in a huff. Preston knew the woman was just trying to protect him, in her own way, but he really wished that she'd learn some compassion. He knew there was a good woman in there. He'd seen glimpses, watching her play with Renata, or carefully tending to the needs of the men she traveled with. Whatever road had brought her to the Commonwealth had hardened her in a lot of ways, but she was a doting mother, a loyal commander. The Colonel had faith that someday, Davis would learn to really trust him, even if it seemed impossible. He just hoped that she wouldn't turn her back on the Minutemen before he had a chance to see it.

The Colonel was pleased, if not a little surprised, to see that the Castle was still in one piece. Maybe Zev was shaping up to be more reliable than he thought. Preston escorted Talise to the Castle's mess hall, offering her a seat in one of the armchairs the Minutemen had salvaged from a nearby furniture store. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "I can get you something, if you'd like."

She shook her head. "I'm okay. Thanks." Talise glanced around the room nervously. "You're sure it's safe here?"

Preston nodded. "I've vetted all of these men and women myself. None of them will hurt you."

"Not even Kestrel?" she asked with a slight smile. "Because she seems like kind of a jerk."

"She's just worried that you're not being honest with us," Preston replied. "I can understand her concern, even if I don't agree with her methods all the time. But I don't think you're a liar. I think you're just scared. Am I on the right track?"

Talise nodded. "The Institute's always watching," she said softly. "And my...the people I used to work for are pretty suspicious of anyone who isn't one of us. They have to be. Especially these days."

Preston grinned, sitting in the chair across from hers. "So you're Railroad, right? I guess that makes sense." Talise froze, her eyes wide in shock and fear. "It's all right!" Preston reassured her. "I don't have any quarrel with the Railroad. Far from it, in fact. I don't think there's anything wrong with trying to help the synths, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. Hell, our General's a member," he added with a low whisper. "Not a lot of people know that, though, so I'd appreciate it if you keep that between us."

Talise nodded, relaxing slightly. "Okay. Yes," she said softly. "I was a Railroad agent. And I still believe in what we...in what they're trying to accomplish. But I...let's just say I have a few issues with how things are run. I know our leader is just trying to protect us, but I'm tired of being kept in the dark all the time. I want to help people. All people. And I don't want to feel like I'm not trusted any more."

The Colonel frowned. "I knew the Railroad was secretive, but why wouldn't they tell you what was going on?"

The woman sighed. "I broke a rule. A really important one. And they exiled me to a waystation in the middle of nowhere because of it. That was bad enough. But then, a few weeks ago, I got this note." She held up a carefully folded sheet of faded paper. "It's from my...from the man I loved," she murmured. "Apparently, he was killed in action. And no one even bothered to tell me to my face. After everything I did for them, all the unfair treatment I agreed to, the Railroad didn't even value me enough to give me that. So I left. I've been making my way south to try and find what's left of his family, so I can tell them what happened. They deserve to know. After that...I thought I'd go back. But now I don't think I can."

"That's awful," Preston said softly. "I'm so sorry. If you want, I can send some minutemen with you, if you know where you're going. Hell, if you want, I could probably leave the Castle with my Lieutenants for a couple weeks. Maybe I could convince whatever settlement his family is with to join our cause."

Talise stared at him. "Why do you care? You just met me."

"That's true," the Colonel replied. "But you're absolutely right. No one should have to go through something like this alone. Besides," he added with a sly smile, "I haven't given up on recruiting you, either. If you're serious about not going back to the Railroad, you could certainly do worse than working for us."

She frowned, her voice a low whisper. "Won't your General try to send me back? I mean..."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Preston said with a laugh. "She's...well, she's a bit of a wild card herself. The General pretty much plays by her own rules, and her biggest one seems to be letting people do what they want. If you get a chance to meet her, you'll understand."

"Well, she certainly sounds better than my old boss," Talise agreed. "I'm not saying I'll join you or anything, but I don't mind it if you want to come with me for now. Like you said, it's safer traveling with someone else. Besides, you're one of the nicest people I've met in a long time."

Preston smiled. "Thank you. You won't regret this, I promise."

Talise sighed softly. "I hate it when people say that. It usually means that I'm definitely about to do something I'll regret."

The Colonel chuckled, standing up. "I'll get us something to eat. I know you said you weren't hungry, but you'll need your strength for the trip. We'll leave the day after tomorrow, if you don't mind waiting. I have a few things to take care of before I can leave again."

Talise nodded. "That's fine. If Henry's family is still alive, they aren't going anywhere." She gently placed the note she was carrying back in her pocket with a sad smile. "And I really could use a good night's sleep."

"Couldn't we all?" Preston asked, heading for the cooking station. His heart ached for her. Why was there so much loss in this world, so much death? Why couldn't people just have the opportunity to be happy? Preston didn't know a single person who hadn't had something precious taken from them by the Commonwealth, and that fact made him deeply upset. This, he realized, was why the Minutemen mattered. This was why he had to keep fighting. Someday, somehow, he wanted to help build a world where people could be happy, where they could have hopes and dreams without the constant dread of everything being taken from them in an instant.

He had no illusions about creating a perfect world. There was always going to be suffering. But Preston knew in his heart that there had to be a better life than this. Hell, Myra had known a better life than this. If it was possible then, it was certainly possible now. All the Commonwealth needed was strong, fair leadership. And the Minutemen could very easily be that force, if they were strong and just again. Thanks to Myra, they had that chance to start over. And Preston would do everything in his power to keep the Minutemen on the right track this time.


	13. The Forgotten Lands

**13\. The Forgotten Lands**

_Danse and Myra navigate the Glowing Sea. Danse attempts to navigate his emotions._

* * *

The Glowing Sea was like nothing Danse had ever experienced before, and it awed and unnerved him in equal measure. There was a stark beauty to the barren, distorted landscape, striations of vibrant oranges and greens playing about the rubble that was once civilization. The very air was electric, biting at Danse's power armor like the hounds of hell as the poisonous wind sent ash and dust swirling about the wastes, covering and uncovering lost secrets in equal measure. Twisted husks of steel and concrete were all that remained of many structures, while others seemed to be miraculously in almost pristine condition, half-buried in glowing sediment.

It was the stillness that bothered Danse the most. He had never been in a place so devoid of man-made noise. From the gentle thrumming of the Prydwen 's engines to the cries and bustle of a busy settlement, the world he knew was always loud and full of life. But here, in the outskirts of the Boston Crater, only the wind resounded, carrying the howls of the damned and the quiet murmurings of prayers that remained eternally unanswered. The only life that remained, as far as he could see, were the mutated monsters that patrolled the region. And even they seemed muted, slaves to the ravenous storm.

Myra pressed on beside him, groaning with effort as she slogged through the oppressive terrain in her old power armor. Danse didn't envy her, but at the same time, watching her struggle made him feel somewhat vindicated. Walking in power armor wasn't the easiest task even in ideal conditions. If Myra had listened to him all the times he'd told her to wear her armor, however, she wouldn't be struggling nearly as much. Her body would have already adjusted to this new way of moving.

"How much further do you think we need to go?" Myra muttered over the radio.

Danse sighed. "If you believe that I have some greater knowledge of Dr. Virgil's location, Larimer, I'm afraid you're mistaken. We just have to keep looking until we find him."

"I know, just…" Myra paused, scoping out the barren landscape before them. "I didn't realize how enormous this place would be. We were all told about the destructive power of the bombs, back before everything ended. But to actually see what happened to our city...I remember some of these buildings, Danse. Not as well as I would like, but I have been here before. To see it like this…" her voice trailed off with a soft cry as she struggled forward, running as fast as she could towards a structure in the distance.

"What is it?" Danse called, racing after her.

Myra didn't reply. Instead, she kept running until she arrived at a low, flat building, partially destroyed by time and nuclear fire. The remains of an old playground lay nearby, swings thrown about, a climbing dome twisted and weathered. In the midst of it, Myra stood, still as the grave itself.

"I...there was someone I loved who worked here," she murmured. "Why can't I remember her name? Her face?"

Danse frowned. He had begun to grow used to his own memory lapses, but he hadn't expected Myra to suffer from the same problem. Was it the result of her trauma? Or was something else wrong with her? He approached her slowly, unsure if she wanted him nearby or not. "Larimer?" he asked softly. "Is everything all right?"

She shook her head slightly. "Someone I was close to...a friend? Why can't I remember? Danse, I don't remember so much, and it's driving me nuts!" she cried hysterically.

The Paladin placed a hand on her shoulder. "Breathe, soldier. That's an order."

Myra nodded, taking a few ragged, shaky breaths. "I...I'm sorry. It's just, there are so many things I remember so vividly, and then…"

"I understand," Danse said gently. "I have had similar problems recently. Perhaps it is simply time taking its toll, or fatigue blurring your mind. It's natural to forget things, even important things, especially given everything you've experienced over the last few months."

"I don't want to forget anything," Myra whispered. "I have so little left from before. And I know that I'll lose more of it with time. I suppose I just wasn't prepared for it to happen this quickly."

"Perhaps it would help if you wrote down some of what you still remember when we return home," the Paladin replied. "It might help you hold on to your memories longer."

Myra seemed to perk up a bit at his suggestion. "That's actually not a bad idea. I used to keep a journal all the time before Nate and I got married. I lost the habit with how busy things were after that." she turned to face him. "Thanks, Danse. I...I guess we should keep moving, huh?"

He nodded, removing his hand from her shoulder. "Agreed. I think we should keep heading south for a while and begin establishing a search grid. If we bisect the area we need to cover, that's a good first step."

"Let's do it," Myra said with a groan. "I really, really don't want to stay here longer than we have to. This place...it's just a huge graveyard. I don't like it."

"Affirmative," Danse replied. "The sooner we can return home, the better." With that, he checked his bearings on his compass. The Paladin frowned as the needle spun slowly, never settling on a direction for longer than a few seconds. It hadn't been so bad when they first started into the Glowing Sea, but now? How could they hope to navigate without some form of guidance? Had they even been heading south at all?

The Paladin looked to the sky, groaning in dismay as he realized that the sun was obscured by the radioactive haze that had given the area its name. There was no way to use the position of the sun or the stars to guide them, either.

"What's wrong, Danse?" Myra asked nervously.

"Check your Pip-Boy, if you can," Danse replied. "My navigation's being thrown off by all this radiation."

"Sorry, Danse," she said with a heavy sigh. "I can't use the screen on my arm, seeing as there's this huge chunk of metal in the way. Sturges did reroute a lot of the systems through the HUD on my armor, but from what I can tell, the radiation's affecting that too. I can't get a clear read."

"Damn," the Paladin muttered. "So we have nothing to use to navigate except for landmarks. I suppose we will have to make due."

"We came in over there, past the Red Rocket station," Myra replied, pointing. "So if we use this school as another landmark, we at least have some idea of where we've been. The question is, what should we be aiming at? My money's on that building over there," she continued, pointing to a partially-obscured structure far in the distance. "It looks like a supermarket, at least from here. That's where I'd go, if I were a rogue scientist. Even out here, he probably still needs to eat."

Danse nodded. "I would venture to guess that all the food left in that store is highly irradiated," he said, "but you're correct. It's still our best plan so far. Outstanding work, Larimer."

They trudged on, keeping the supermarket in their sights as much as they could, even as the radioactive haze obscured their vision. Myra stayed as close as possible to Danse, and the Paladin couldn't help but notice that she was quieter than normal. Was she still concerned about her memory, or was it the feeling of claustrophobia washing over her once more? Either way, he made an effort to stay within a few feet of her as well, to remind her that she wasn't in this nightmare of a wasteland alone.

The distance they normally could have crossed in a matter of hours took almost all afternoon. Between the radscorpion swarms and the brutal conditions the pair had to fight through, it was incredibly slow going. But with struggle and perseverance, they reached the abandoned store. Myra sighed in frustration as she entered the structure.

"Damn it," she hissed, "the store's gone. This is just the parking garage. Unless Virgil's really into old Corvegas, we're not going to find him here. Man, why can't anything..."

As Myra continued to vent, Danse's ears perked up. There, somewhere nearby, he could just make out angry grumbling noises. "Shh!" he warned. "I don't think we're alone." He glanced around carefully, trying to find the source of the sounds.

"What is it?" Myra asked. "More bugs?"

Danse shook his head. "Sounds like ferals. A lot of ferals, if I'm not mistaken. We should return to the outside, before they realize...damn it!" he exclaimed as he felt a heavy thump on his back, his ears filled with the raving snarls of countless ravenous ghouls as they swarmed the pair. "Move, Larimer! If we fire in here, we'll most likely combust the entire structure. Get outside!"

Myra wasted no time in storming out of the parking garage, gasping in panic as the feral ghouls poured out of the doors like water. "Danse!" she cried, "Get clear! I've got some grenades!"

"Affirmative!" he replied, running past her. As he ran, he fired laser blast after laser blast into the swarm of twisted, irradiated bodies. "I'll keep them off you as best as I can. Make it count, soldier."

"I always do," she said, pulling a frag grenade from her pack. "I hope you guys like spicy food," she snarked, "because things are about to get real hot." Myra pulled the pin and tossed the grenade into the fray as Danse used suppressing fire to keep the ferals concentrated. As the explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet, Myra readied another grenade. "How's it looking, Danse?" she asked as she tossed the second explosive closer to the door, where ghouls still struggled to emerge from the building.

"The grenades are helping," he replied, "but there's still quite a few hostiles converging on your location. I'm going to recommend that you retreat, Larimer. Make for the ridge behind you. I'll meet you there."

"I thought you told me that retreat wasn't an option," she replied, readying Righteous Authority . "I've got your back. Let's take these zombie bastards down."

Danse sighed, even as his heart flooded with pride. "Very well," he muttered, continuing to lay down a steady stream of fire. "But please, at least move closer to me. Ferals are at their most dangerous if they get behind you."

"Gotcha," Myra replied, thudding towards him. She stood next to the Paladin at an angle, forming a chevron of fiery destruction as they both continued shooting into the horde.

After what seemed like hours, the crowd finally thinned out, and Myra breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I'm down to my last few energy cells."

Danse frowned. "What about the extra ammunition I packed for you?"

"I burned through most of it when we met up with the fourth group of radscorpions," she replied bitterly. "I'm starting to understand why no one ever comes here."

"It is quite a challenging location," Danse said. "Here. I have a little bit more ammunition left. I'll share it with you."

Myra shook her head. "Then you won't have enough. I can use this." She pulled out a small pistol. It wasn't the same one she'd been carrying when Danse had first met her, that clunky old black 9mm. It was slighter of build, a long, elegant silencer giving it a sleek silhouette.

Danse furrowed his brow. "Are you certain that will be sufficient firepower? I have a feeling that the beasts of this land will only grow more ferocious as we continue."

Myra nodded. "Trust me, it's more powerful than it looks. Deacon gave it to me, and he said it's got quite a few surprises."

The Paladin grimaced as he felt his blood boil at the other man's name. It wasn't as if Myra wasn't allowed to receive presents from other men. That would be absurd. But when Danse had given her Righteous Authority, that had been a special moment for him. Although he'd played it off at the time as a reward for her help, he'd never given someone anything he treasured quite as much as his laser rifle before. He wasn't sure what had come over him, but he knew in his heart that it was right for Myra to have it. As the months wore on, as they'd grown closer, Righteous Authority became more than just a gift to him. It became a symbol of their bond, a silent testament to a hope he still could scarcely begin to express. To know that she'd received a similar present from Deacon bothered Danse more than he cared to admit.

"If you insist on using that peashooter," he grumbled, "at least stay behind me where you'll be safe."

"Don't worry about me," Myra retorted. "I can handle myself, even with just Deliverer . You'll see."

Danse sighed. When would Myra learn that he couldn't help but worry about her? She was too overconfident at times, not confident enough at others. She was sometimes so incredibly cynical, but when it came to the motives of other people, she was almost childishly naive. It was only natural for him to want to protect her. Why couldn't she see that? "Hopefully, you won't be forced to prove it," he muttered. "But Larimer, I do know your skill. Please, don't take my concern as a criticism. It's not meant to be one."

Myra exhaled deeply. "I...I know that, Danse. I'm sorry if I was short with you. It's just...this place. Being trapped in this damn suit. It's really putting me on edge. We need to get out of here."

The Paladin nodded. "Let's head towards those cliffs," he said, pointing to his right at a series of black spires that rose in the distance like the grasping claws of a gigantic monster clutching at the cured sky. "If nothing else, we'll have a better vantage point from higher up."

Together, they slowly made their way uphill, taking deliberate and careful steps to avoid falling. By the time they reached the crest of one of the larger outcroppings, night had fallen over the barren wastes. Even in darkness, the radioactive haze glowed and undulated across the land, sinking into hollows and forgotten places. It was easy to see why the region was called a sea. From above, in the darkness, the rugged terrain seemed shrouded in mystery and unknown terrors, a second ocean drowning in radiation. It was almost beautiful, Danse thought, if it wasn't so deadly.

Myra stood beside him, almost close enough for their pauldrons to touch, looking out over the seemingly endless wasteland. She sighed, her hand coming to rest painfully close to his. "I never thought I'd see anything so terrible," she murmured. "Or so incredibly stunning."

Danse's fingers twitched as he was overcome with the urge to hold her hand. Slowly, he reached out to her, tentatively weaving his armored fingers through hers. Myra chuckled slightly, gripping his hand tightly in her own. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Danse couldn't think of anything to say that was worth breaking the calm of the night, or worth bringing them back to the task at hand. He wanted to stay by her side like that forever, even as he desperately tried to think of a reason not to. It was a strange sort of serenity, facing the darkness together. And for one, beautifully soul-aching moment, everything seemed just...right, for once.

Finally, Myra let go of his hand, turning her gaze to the path ahead. "Danse, look," she murmured. "I think we're at the edge of the crater."

He followed her gaze downwards, frowning as man-made structures seemed to materialize before his eyes in the glowing sludge beneath them. These buildings could not have existed before the war. Everything in the immediate blast radius had been vaporized. And there was only one group of people foolish and deluded enough to build a home in a radioactive cesspool like this. "Children of Atom," he spit disdainfully. "We should steer clear."

"Who are the Children of Atom?" Myra asked, puzzled.

"They're a cult that worships radiation," Danse explained. "They're not very dangerous, as long as you don't confront them, but they're all certifiably insane. No one knows why, exactly, but many of them seem to be immune to the effects of radiation. I wouldn't be surprised if this place had religious significance to them."

Myra sighed. "Because of course there's a bomb-worshiping cult. No Catholic parishes still in operation for at least a hundred miles, but plenty of whackos like this. I hate the apocalypse," she muttered.

The Paladin smiled as she continued to rant under her breath. There was something endearing about her indignation, he thought. That, or he'd just grown so accustomed to it that he'd begun to enjoy hearing her ramble. It was just...well, it was just Myra.

Without meaning to, Danse found himself thinking about what things would be like if they'd somehow met before the War, before Nate, before everything. Who would he have been, if he'd been born two centuries ago? Would he still be a soldier? What would have happened if he'd arrived one night at a certain bar, had struck up a conversation with the fetching young bartender? In simpler times, could she have actually fallen in love with him?

Unbidden, scenes played out in the theater of his mind, of freshly-painted white picket fences, of the scent of coffee hanging in the morning air. He saw Myra - not the woman he knew, but the girl she had been - grinning up at him, her face bright and clean and full of freckles. He heard her calling his first name, felt her delicate fingers ruffling his dark, full hair. And then, he saw her standing in an open doorway, holding an infant in her arms, the child's hair chestnut brown like hers, its eyes warm and dark like his.

Danse felt an ache grow deep in his chest as the images faded, a longing for something that could never be. No matter what happened between them now, if anything ever did, it could never be like that. Not really. The world they lived in, who they were...everything was duller, diminished by centuries of war and decay. And what remained, was that even worth hoping for? Was he even allowed to hope for it, if it was?

"...so I guess we'd better go talk to them," Myra concluded, watching him as she waited for a response.

Danse blushed, his eyes widening as he processed her words. What had he missed while he was daydreaming? "Talk to them?" he asked incredulously. "I'm not sure that's the wisest course of action."

"What choice do we have?" Myra retorted. "They're the only living people for miles, even if they are nuts. If anyone knows where Virgil is, they're our best bet."

Danse sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, Myra had a point. "Very well," he replied resignedly. "But if they decide to blast us with high amounts of radiation, I'm holding you responsible."

"Duly noted," she replied with a chuckle. "Last one to the creepy cult compound's buying the drinks when we get home!" she exclaimed before racing down the cliff.

The Paladin rolled his eyes. "I don't even drink," he muttered as he took off after her. "And you always make me pay for your drinks anyway."

* * *

In spite of the Children of Atom's usual aloofness and curious way of speaking, the cultists were actually surprisingly helpful. In almost no time compared to their journey to the crater, Danse and Myra found themselves at the mouth of a cave, facing a weathered makeshift door.

"Well, if Mother Isolde is to be believed," Danse said, "Dr. Virgil should be living here. I find it had to believe that anyone could survive in all this radiation or long."

"You say that like we didn't just meet a bunch of people who are doing just that," Myra replied. "If the Institute's scientists really are as smart as everyone says, I'll bet he found a way. There's only one way to know for certain, though." She stepped into the cave cautiously.

The space was lit better than Danse was expecting, and for a cave in the middle of desolation, it seemed almost comfortable. The Paladin tensed as his eyes caught sight of two turrets in the tunnel ahead of them, guarding the door. "Someone certainly lives here," he said quietly. "These turrets are fairly new."

Myra nodded. "Yeah, and look at these can alarms. Someone really doesn't want visitors."

"Hold it!" growled a low, gravely voice from ahead of them that sent shivers down Danse's spine. That tone...no...it couldn't be. "Take it nice and slow. No sudden moves."

"Dr. Virgil?" Myra called. "It's okay. We aren't here to hurt you. My friend and I are just looking for your help."

"Liar!" the voice called from deeper within the cavern. "I know you're from the Institute! I know they sent Kellogg after me. So where is he? Sneaking around to catch me off guard while you distract me? Well, it isn't going to work."

Myra took a few steps forward. "Easy. Kellogg's dead. I killed him myself."

"There's no way that's true!" the voice roared.

"It's the truth," Danse insisted. "I was there. Conrad Kellogg is deceased."

A large, hideous Super Mutant appeared ahead, glaring at them incredulously. "So, Kellogg's really gone. And you killed him. Then what could you possibly want from me?"

Danse's eyes narrowed, and he raised his laser rifle, aiming it at the abomination before him. "Damned mutant filth!" he growled.

"Whoa!" cried Myra, running in front of him, her arms spread wide. "Danse, cool it. Lower your weapon! We need his help."

"Larimer," Danse warned, shaking his head, "get out of the way. This...thing has to die. You know it's the truth. So why are you protecting it?"

She shook her head. "Please, Danse. Lower your gun. I'm not thrilled about this development either, but we need to hear him out. He might be the only person who can get us to Shaun."

Danse groaned. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That thing isn't a person any more, Knight. It's a dangerous mutant. We can't let it live."

"If you kill him," Myra said softly, "you might as well put a bullet in me too, Danse, because you'll be destroying the last hope I have of ever seeing my son again."

Danse shook his head. "We'll find another way, Larimer. There has to be someone else who can help us."

"I hate to intrude," Virgil growled, "but I agree with your friend, young lady. If I were you, I'd kill me too. I don't want to be a Super Mutant. I infected myself out of necessity, not by choice. All the same, it's only a matter of time before the madness sets in. Then, I really will be as dangerous as he says I am."

"Which means you aren't a threat to us yet," Myra protested. "I need to get into the Institute. You're the only one who can help me. Please. Tell me what I need to know."

The mutant sighed. "What you're trying to do is suicide," he growled. "But maybe we can help each other. If I can get you into the Institute, you'd have access to my research. Including a serum I was developing that might serve as a cure for my...condition."

"You're lying!" Danse snarled. "There is no cure for the FEV virus."

Virgil shook his head. "There wasn't," he continued. "But I've been trying to synthesize one for years. I hated what the Institute was trying to do with the FEV virus, all the lives we destroyed...I wanted to make it right. But certain members of the senior staff caught wind of my research. They wanted to shut me down. Permanently. So I ran. If I could just finish my research, I might be able to make all of this right."

Danse stared at the mutant, wide-eyed. "If you're telling the truth," he said, his voice shaking, "then does that mean that you could cure others?"

Virgil sighed. "Look, at this point, I don't even know if the serum will work on me. But if it does, it would still just be a cure of one strain of the virus. It'd take years for me to develop a cure for all the other strains."

The Paladin lowered his weapon slowly. "Very well. If you help us, we will do what we can to assist you with your research. But if I discover that you are being less than honest with us, I will not hesitate to exterminate you. Am I making myself clear?"

"Perfectly," the scientist grumbled. "Now, if you want to get into the Institute, you'll need a way to hijack the signal produced by the Molecular Relay. That's what the Institute uses to teleport their synths to the surface. If you could lock on to the signal, you could possibly piggyback onto an incoming transport. But you'll need the right piece of technology to do that, a chip from an Institute Courser. If you can obtain one of those, I can maybe help you."

Myra frowned. "From what my friends have told me, Coursers are incredibly dangerous. Killing one and stealing their chip won't be easy."

Virgil laughed bitterly. "If it were easy, the Institute wouldn't be as secure as it is. Look, if there were a safer way, I would tell you. Remember, I want that serum. It's in my best interest to get you inside in one piece."

"That's fair," Myra conceded. "So how are we supposed to track down a Courser? Do we just wear a sign that says 'Hi, I'm a Rogue Synth,' and hope for the best?"

The scientist glared at her through his absurdly small glasses. "I wouldn't advise that, no," he growled. "The best method would be to use your radio to find the interference caused by the Relay when it activates. You'll be looking for a low frequency, imperceptible to the human ear. If you can find it, the signal should lead you right to a Courser."

Danse frowned. "This seems like a terrible plan, Larimer."

Myra sighed. "Yeah. But right now, it's all we've got." She turned her attention back to Virgil. "So, where should we start looking? You have to have some idea."

The mutant nodded. "The main insertion point for Coursers is in the C.I.T. ruins, right above the Institute. That's your best bet."

"Thank you," Myra said. "I promise, if we pull this off, I'll get that serum into your hands."

"You'd better," Virgil growled. "Because if you don't, I'll crush you to a pulp."

"You'd be dead before you got a single swing in," Danse warned.

Myra waved her hands about frantically. "Whoa. Hey. Can we just all agree to do our best and not murder each other? I'd rather make it through this alive, thank you very much."

Danse sighed. "I promise that I'll...overlook this beast's condition for now," he grumbled. "But if anything happens to you, I can't promise I won't want revenge."

Virgil shrugged. "I won't promise that this is going to work," he rasped. "But if it doesn't, I'll let you kill me. Without that serum, my life is basically over anyway."

"Then I believe we have an agreement," Danse replied. He turned to Myra. "Let's leave, Larimer. You have what we came for."

She nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Virgil. Hopefully, we'll see each other soon."

"Yeah," the mutant muttered. "Hopefully."

* * *

The trek back to civilization was a long one, and after their long journey to Virgil's cave, Danse was anxious to return to the relative safety of the Commonwealth. It had been nearly a full day's journey, and between all the fighting and hiking, the Paladin's body was exhausted. He knew that Myra must be feeling even worse, given that her muscles were still not used to power armor. How was she still standing, let alone walking? Somehow, the return trip seemed slower, each plodding step not quite gathering enough distance through the glowing mist.

Myra had been eerily silent ever since they'd left Virgil's cave, as though she was hundreds of miles away. Danse could hardly blame her. Neither of them had been expecting the scientist to be a Super Mutant, or that the quest before them would be quite so daunting. Killing a Courser...Danse had never met someone who had managed such a thing. Was it even possible?

As his mind raced with worries upon worries, Danse suddenly noticed that Myra had slowed her pace to walk next to him, the eye plates of her helmet turned to watch him. "Danse?" Myra asked softly. "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it, Larimer?" he replied cautiously.

She cocked her head slightly, studying the Paladin. Even through her helmet and his, he could feel her questioning gaze. "Don't get me wrong," she said after a moment, "I'm glad you decided not to kill Dr. Virgil. But why did you? I mean, I know you hate Super Mutants."

The Paladin sighed. "It's a long story, Knight. And a very personal one."

"Don't give me that," she retorted. "You know you can trust me, Danse. What made you change your mind?"

"I…" Danse thought for a long while, struggling to know where to begin. "You know that I grew up as an orphan," he finally said. "But I wasn't alone all that time. When I was older, but still a child in many ways, I met someone. His name was Cutler. We ended up opening a junk stand together in Rivet City. He was the first person I ever learned to rely on. We were closer than brothers."

"Sounds like he was a great friend," Myra said softly.

"He was," Danse agreed. "We did everything together. Hell, we even joined the Brotherhood together. But about a year after we were posted to the Prydwen , Cutler and his team vanished on a scouting op. I managed to convince my commanding officer to let me lead a team to search for him. We eventually tracked his squad to a Super Mutant hive. Those wretched abominations had slaughtered everyone. Except for Cutler."

Myra inhaled sharply. "I'm not sure I like where this is going," she said.

Danse shook his head. "If only he'd been lucky enough to die with the rest of them. But those mutant bastards...they infected him with the virus, made him one of their own kind. I...I didn't have a choice. He wasn't Cutler any more. There was no way to cure him. It was my duty to…" Danse gulped painfully, trying to keep his tears in check. "I had to put him down."

Myra's armored hand slipped into his. "Oh, Danse," she murmured. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry. That must have been devastating."

He nodded. "Suffice it to say, that was arguably the worst moment of my life. Ever since then, I've vowed to destroy every Super Mutant I come across, both because they are abominations against nature and because...because no one should have to experience the horror of becoming one of those things."

Myra nodded. "Given what you went through, I can certainly understand that. So why spare Virgil?"

The Paladin sighed. "If Virgil is telling the truth, if there is a cure, or even the possibility of a cure...we have to make sure it works. Then, maybe, we can finally rid the world of Super Mutants once and for all. Maybe we can actually save people, instead of just destroying the monsters they've become."

"We'll do everything we can," Myra said, squeezing his hand. "Damn it," she muttered in frustration, "I wish we weren't in the middle of the Glowing Sea right now. I really, really want to give you a hug. A real one."

Danse blushed, immensely grateful that his face was hidden under his helmet. "I...I suppose if you don't mind waiting until a more opportune moment...that is, um…" he sighed. "That would be acceptable, given the circumstances."

"Well, then," Myra said, her voice slightly higher than normal, "I guess it's a date. We get back to Sanctuary, and I'm going to give you the best damn hug of your life."

Danse would not have gone so far as to say he was eager to return to Sanctuary. It had been his intention to report directly to the _Prydwen_ , to let Maxson know what they had learned. But now, the Paladin found his stride was just a little bit faster, his shots just a little more accurate, as the pair fought their way towards the extraction point beyond the frightfully beautiful confines of the Glowing Sea.


	14. The Army of Three

**14\. The Army of Three**

_Myra and Danse help MacCready find himself again before they track down the Courser._

* * *

RJ MacCready sat on his usual barstool at the Last Minuteman , gazing into the dregs of a glass of whiskey. At this point, it was hard to tell if the drink was his last of the night or his first of the morning. It didn't really matter, he supposed. All the days had been blurring together lately anyways. Ever since he'd returned to the Minutemen stronghold, all the mercenary wanted to do was fade into a haze of booze and sleep. The first part he'd taken care of, and as to the second part, well, he'd either stagger into the room he'd secured in the back of the bar, or he'd black out and someone else would get him there. It'd be a pretty peaceful existence, if not for the torment that continued to plague the back of his mind. There was no spirit strong enough, no sleep deep enough, to undo what had happened to him.

The bar was nearly empty, save for Ben, Marcy's bartender. The blonde man had a few years on MacCready, but certainly had less real-world experience. Hell, the man couldn't even mix a decent cocktail without being told exactly what to do every time. His bright green eyes were constantly tinged with insecurity, and it frustrated MacCready to no end. If there was one thing MacCready despised in the people he met, it was insecurity. That was a form of weakness that the wasteland most preyed on. Without confidence, people either cowered or died, often both. The world in which they lived was no place for fearful souls.

Marcy entered the room, broom in her hand as she swept out the refuse of the day. She sighed as her eyes met MacCready's in the filthy mirror behind the bar. "You're still here?" she asked in disdain.

"Yep," was all he said in reply. He wasn't sure what Marcy expected of him at this point. They'd had this same conversation every night for more than a week now. He knew she'd realized that he had nowhere else to go. He frowned as he raised his glass to his mouth with his left hand, cursing under his breath as his trembling arm betrayed him, spilling liquor down his chin. The tremors hadn't gotten any better, it seemed. And the more he drank, the worse they got. Still, it was better to be drunk and shaky than to be sober and terrified. At least that's what he told himself.

MacCready knew in his heart that Lori was dead, that Myra had killed his tormentor. That wasn't the part that scared him. What kept him up at night were the things Lori had said to him as she'd carved into his flesh, words that made him think her actions were almost justified. He'd never been proud of the career he'd made for himself, even if he had been proud of his skill with a sniper rifle. That was why he'd lied to Lucy in the first place, had told her that he was a soldier rather than a man who killed for pay. Now, he didn't even have that skill to be proud of. As long as he couldn't hold his rifle steady, he was nothing.

"I guess I need another," MacCready slurred. "This one's not working any more."

"Maybe you should call it a night, Mac," Marcy said coolly as she looked up from her sweeping. "I think you've had enough."

"I'm...it's fine," he muttered. "Benji, another."

The fair-haired bartender looked between the mercenary and Marcy, his hand barely caressing the neck of a bottle of whiskey. "I'm not sure I should let you have another. Should I?"

Marcy sighed. "Normally, Ben, I'd be pissed if you even asked. As long as he's got caps, you should keep pouring. But in this case…" she sighed. "MacCready, get the hell out of my bar. I'm getting tired of your face. Either go to bed and sleep it off, or I'll have Frank lock you up for being drunk and disorderly. Guy owes me a few favors. Either way, you'll be out of my hair, so it's up to you which you wanna choose."

MacCready sneered at her, struggling to stand. "I know when I'm not wanted," he slurred, staggering out of the bar and into the street. He wasn't sure where he was heading, not that it particularly mattered. All he knew was that he didn't want to stay at the bar, not if Marcy was going to look at him like that. He must have been pretty damn pathetic to garner pity in her eyes. Marcy Long didn't pity anyone.

At least at this hour, there were few other people awake to see his miserable wanderings. Besides the night watchmen that patrolled the streets, Sanctuary might as well have been deserted once more. That suited MacCready just fine. It was easier to be alone.

The cool spring air cleared his head a little. He hated it for that. MacCready didn't want to think, not tonight. He wanted to fade into the haze of booze and weariness that he'd been living in, to just stop being for a while. He wasn't suicidal, just...tired. He was exhausted by worry, by what his life had become.

It was strange. The mercenary had been like this before, just after Lucy's death. He'd spent months in a dull fog, wishing he could pull himself out but unable to escape the pit he'd dug for himself. Then, as the days continued, he'd finally started recovering, devoting himself to the farm, to Duncan, to trying to be the man Lucy had thought she'd married rather than the one he was. And things had started to get better, slowly.

Then, there'd been Myra, the naive young woman who'd taken a chance on him. She'd given him dignity again, had seen him as more than just a hired gun. Between her and Preston, the future had seemed full of possibilities. Neither of the minutemen cared about who or what he'd been. They wanted to work beside the man he was becoming, and MacCready had to admit that had felt damn good.

But then, he'd been kidnapped, and the shadows of his past that he thought had finally been put to bed had emerged with a vengeance. MacCready knew he hadn't deserved a second chance at happiness. The blood on his hands was a stain that could never really be washed away. He'd made some terrible choices in the name of money...so many terrible choices. The mercenary didn't deserve salvation. And now, he wasn't even convinced that he wanted it.

MacCready's swaying steps eventually brought him to Myra's door, and he grumbled as he tripped into her living room, scraping his hand in the doorframe. The house was as silent as a tomb, dark and cool as the night breeze flitted through the paneless windows. Since she and Danse had left, the house had remained empty, a shell of the warm home it once had been, centuries ago. There was a sadness to the dilapidated building that drew MacCready deeper into it, as though the place were a shrine to shattered dreams, a place for lost things to die. It was an oddly fitting place to find himself.

He stopped before a locked door, frowning at it. Even when he'd been to Myra's before, he'd never entered this room. Curiosity getting the better of him, he pulled a bobby pin from the band of his cap, wiggling it into the lock carefully. Normally, a lock like this would be child's play. But between the shaking in his hand and the liquor sapping his dexterity, MacCready had a great deal of difficulty wrestling the damn thing open. After the fourth pin, he finally managed to unlock the door, and he laughed in triumph as he pulled it open to reveal the small room beyond.

MacCready frowned as he surveyed the piles of junk thrown about the room, artifacts of a life that had ended long ago. Here were photographs, faded with age in their broken frames, faces he could barely make out in the darkness. There were old suits laid carefully over a chair, an old uniform of some kind hanging in the closet. But what really caught his eye was the broken crib in the center of the room, a single rocket ship still dangling from the ruined mobile. A worn blanket lay in the base of the crib, faded blue ribbon bordering pale fabric. The mercenary's fingers ghosted over the soft bedding, his eyes misting as hopelessness overwhelmed him.

He remembered when Duncan had been so small, how happy he and Lucy had been. Well, she'd been happy. Frankly, he'd been terrified. Years of looking after younger kids hadn't prepared him for the reality of being a father, not really. Holding a child of his own, seeing Duncan's tiny, perfect fingers clench and unclench as he dreamed baby dreams...it had been overwhelming. At seventeen, MacCready had already seen so much of the shit the world had to offer. How could he possibly protect someone so small, so soft, so innocent from a world that was determined to destroy everything good that remained in it? He'd tried to put his feelings into words, to explain to Lucy why he kept his distance from their son, but no matter what he said, she didn't seem to understand.

It took Lucy's death for him to become the sort of father she'd always wanted him to be. That was one of the things MacCready regretted the most. Those first precious years together, he should have given up sniping. He should have listened to his wife's gentle insistence that they get a farm, a stable place to live. If he'd only listened, if he'd only had the courage to give up what he knew for his family...then Lucy might still be alive. But he'd granted her wishes too late, and now it barely mattered. What was the point in a peaceful life without her?

As MacCready broke down in tears, he wished for the hundredth time that he and Duncan had died alongside her in that metro station. Why had they been cursed to suffer, losing everything, when they could have just met their fate together as a family? But Lucy had convinced him to flee with their son. There was an urgency in her eyes as the feral ghouls had descended on her, as if all her remaining will were condensed into that one final wish: that the people she loved the most would be safe. That they would at least have each other. And against his better judgement, MacCready had done what he could to fulfill that dream.

But now, Duncan was dying, hundreds of miles away, and MacCready's hope for a cure was fainter than it had ever been. He knew where a cure might be. He had everything he needed to obtain it. But if he couldn't shoot, he had no hope of reaching the cure on his own. It would have been difficult enough when he could reliably aim. Now, it was truly hopeless. Duncan would die, and MacCready would be alone in the world, the way he undoubtedly deserved.

He curled up on the floor of the nursery, crying until he had no tears left to shed as he clutched the blanket in his hands. As his sobs turned to dry wails, sleep finally came for him, and he happily embraced the void. Even nightmares were easier to deal with than the reality of his situation. At least nightmares could be woken up from.

* * *

"Mac? Hey. Get up."

MacCready awoke with a pounding headache, wincing as he heard someone calling his name. He looked up to see Myra standing over him, her hands on her hips. Her emerald eyes were sharp as knives, but he was still happier to see irritation than pity reflected in them. He wasn't sure if he could bear it if even Myra pitied him. Danse stood behind her, his armored bulk filling the doorframe. He looked less annoyed than Myra did. If anything, the Paladin almost seemed apathetic about the situation. Somehow, that was worse.

"Oh," MacCready said with a low groan as he sat up. "Good morning."

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Myra scolded, helping him to his feet. "I locked that door for a reason, Mac."

"Sorry," the mercenary muttered. "I know, I...I was pretty drunk. Pretty sure I still am, actually. Is the floor supposed to be spinning like this?"

"Easy," Myra said softly, holding him steady. "See, that's why I'm worried about you, Mac. It's one thing to kill your liver. But breaking and entering? You're just going to get yourself in trouble. You're lucky I'm your friend, and not some random settler. You might have gotten yourself shot."

"Don't worry about me," MacCready snapped. "I'm not some kid for you to dote on. I can take care of myself."

Danse scoffed. "I think we'd both believe that more if you proved it, MacCready. While I don't share Larimer's concern for your well-being, I certainly understand it."

Myra frowned. "Danse, please." She turned to the mercenary. "Mac, you look like crap, and not just because of the alcohol. Have you been eating?"

MacCready moaned, holding his head. "Does whiskey count?"

"No, it doesn't," she retorted. "Come on. You're going to get a nice hot bath, and I'll make you some breakfast. Danse, will you please help him get cleaned up?"

The Paladin sighed. "Why is this reprobate my responsibility? He's your friend, not mine."

Myra smirked. "Well, if you'd rather, I can take him to the public bathhouse and you can make breakfast."

MacCready snorted. "That'd be pretty nice, My. You can scrub all the hard-to-reach places for me."

Danse stared at the mercenary, his eyes narrowed in disgust. "Very well. I'll do it." He hoisted MacCready over his shoulder, hauling the mercenary outside.

"Make sure he actually cleans up," Myra called after them. "We need him sober and recharged, Danse. Stay with him the whole time if you have to."

The Paladin groaned, charging faster down the street. "How did this become my life?" he muttered. "I'm one of the most respected officers in the Brotherhood of Steel, not a nursemaid."

"Put me down!" MacCready protested, flailing. "Are you crazy?"

"Listen, MacCready," Danse growled as he continued to plod towards the bathhouse, "I'm exactly as enthused by this as you are. If you'd just try to be responsible for once in your miserable life, neither of us would be in this position. So please, try to make this process as painless as possible, and I promise not to drop you on your head."

The mercenary tried to fight back a wave of nausea. Even in ideal conditions, bouncing down the street face down would make his stomach churn. But now, with an excess of booze in his system… "Ugh, I'm gonna be sick," he moaned.

"Don't even think about it!" Danse barked in alarm. "If you vomit on me, I'll make you clean my armor for a -" Danse's protests were cut off as MacCready heaved violently, the contents of his stomach dripping down the Paladin's back.

"Oh, god," Mac cried. "Please, just stop moving."

Danse sighed heavily, easing the younger man off his shoulder and setting him down on the curb. "You're fortunate that Larimer is so fond of you," he grumbled. "You're pathetic, undisciplined, and a disgrace. If it were up to me, we would have cut you loose months ago."

"Yeah, well we can't all be emotionless robots, Danse," the mercenary groaned. "Look, I'm sorry that I'm not a hardass like you. But what I've been through...hell, I think even you'd drink to forget something like that."

"Doubtful," Danse replied coolly. "And contrary to what you may believe, I do have emotions. I just choose not to let them hold me back. You should try to do the same."

"Oh, trust me, I'd love to," MacCready said glumly. "It's not that easy."

The Paladin shook his head. "It's precisely that easy. But if you'd rather drown yourself in alcohol than actually fight back, I suppose that's your call. Just don't drag Larimer down with you." Danse sighed heavily. "Are you less queasy now?"

MacCready nodded. "Yeah. Um, sorry about your back."

"You certainly will be, by the time you're done polishing my armor," Danse replied, helping the mercenary up. "The bathhouse is two doors down from here. Are you able to walk that far, or do I have to carry you again?"

MacCready shook his head. "I think I can manage. Thanks."

Danse nodded. "Outstanding. Lean on me if you're feeling unstable."

"Can we just get this over with?" MacCready asked, stumbling forward as he walked. "No offense, Danse, but you're not exactly my type. I'd rather not be seen holding on to your arm."

"Don't flatter yourself, MacCready," Danse scoffed. "You act like I've never done this sort of thing for anyone before. While I'd prefer it if you could bathe yourself, you wouldn't be the first intoxicated squadmate I've had to assist in that area."

MacCready managed a smirk. "So we're squadmates now? Gee, that's a step up."

"As long as Larimer asks us to work together," Danse replied, "you're part of my team. Whether I like it or not, that means you're my responsibility. I understand if this...change in our relationship makes you uncomfortable, but I also don't particularly care. You lost the right to protest when you acted so foolishly in the first place."

"I don't think so," MacCready mumbled, entering the bathhouse. "It's too much fun watching you squirm."

The Inner Sanctuary Bathhouse and Spa was located in a large metal building at the end of the cul-du-sac. A series of pipes carried water from the river to a massive water purifier next to the structure, which supplied all the water for the settlement. From there, more pipes carried the purified water over a bed of coals, heating the liquid to a nearly scalding temperature, before connecting to a set of spigots inside the building. Each of these spigots was located above a bathtub, around ten in total. Each bathtub was surrounded by a set of curtains hung from steel rods, creating private spaces in which to bathe. Various homemade soaps and oils were available from a vendor at the entrance, though many patrons just prefered the luxury of hot water.

The Paladin sighed, holding a curtain aside for MacCready. "Of course, I suspect that's why Larimer is fond of you. You both get far too much pleasure from tormenting me. Though I do wish you'd worry more about her well-being and less about laughing at my expense."

MacCready looked up at him with a faint smile. "She's really worried about me, huh?"

"What do you think brought us back to Sanctuary in the first place?" Danse asked. "Larimer wanted to bring you along on our next mission, just as she promised. She's concerned that you're going to keep getting worse if you stay here alone. Frankly, given the state we found you in, I agree with her assessment. But as you are now, MacCready, you're nothing more than a liability. You have to get some control back over your life, and soon. Otherwise, you aren't the only one who's going to suffer."

MacCready frowned as he thought about Myra, about all the things she'd done for him since they'd met. She'd given him a job, had valued him for more than just a tool for killing her enemies. She'd helped him kill Winlock and Barnes, even when it had nearly cost the General of the Minutemen her life. She'd fought and killed Lori, something MacCready would never have been able to do, and then had talked the Brotherhood into treating the mercenary's injuries. No matter how hard MacCready tried to erase his debt to her, Myra was always there, adding another line to the ledger. He owed her so much at this point that he could fight for her for the rest of his life and never feel like he'd done enough.

Now, instead of paying her back any way he could, he'd been wallowing, so consumed by his own pain that he had failed to notice that he was hurting her as well. For some inexplicable reason, Myra Larimer cared about him, really, genuinely cared. Her friendship was a gift, and one he'd failed to appreciate time and again as his struggles swallowed him. She wasn't just his boss. She was a reason to keep fighting. How had he so easily forgotten that?

MacCready yelped as Danse dumped a bucket of cold water over him. "Damn it, Danse!" he hissed. "I'm still dressed! And I thought Myra said I was getting a hot bath, not a cold shower."

Danse smiled slightly. "Your clothes could use a wash as well," he said, drawing the curtain shut around the small space.

"So take them to the laundry next door while I bathe." MacCready shook his head as he fumbled with his duster. "Myra's rubbing off on you, Paladin. And I'm not sure it's an improvement."

The Paladin sighed, helping MacCready out of his sopping clothes. "I filled the bathtub for you while you were daydreaming. Get in, and I'll make sure your clothes get laundered. I needed to head over there anyway, since they have the only hose in the settlement, and I'd like to deep-clean my armor."

MacCready rolled his eyes, struggling into the steaming bathtub. He sighed in relief as the hot water enveloped him. He wasn't a fan of getting wet, but nothing beat a hot bath for easing away all manner of aches and worries. The mercenary's mind started to clear as the heat permeated his bones. And unlike the night before, he was actually grateful for the clarity. Danse was completely right. He'd been standing still for too long. It was time to fight back, to keep his promises to the people he cared about.

Before he'd left for the Commonwealth, he'd promised Duncan that he was going to try and become a better man, the kind of father his sweet son deserved. He'd promised Heather that he'd take care of himself, would avoid unnecessary risks so Duncan wouldn't be an orphan. And here, even if he'd never said the words out loud, he'd made a promise to Myra as well. That promise, most of all, he intended to keep.

"Are you comfortable?" Danse asked as he gathered MacCready's belongings. "Do you need anything?"

"I'd kill for a drink," MacCready quipped, "but something tells me you're not planning on getting me one."

"If you can joke," Danse replied over his shoulder as he walked out of the room. "you're well enough to look after yourself now. Come back to Myra's house when you're feeling up to it. I'll meet you there with your clothes."

"With my...hey!" MacCready fumed. "What am I supposed to wear, then?"

But Danse was already either out of earshot, or had no interest in helping him with that particular dilemma. MacCready sank into the tub with a huff. If it was anyone other than Danse, he'd have assumed that he was being pranked. Was this payback for the armor?

Either way, the hot water worked wonders on his weary body, so MacCready could hardly complain about that part of the situation. The only question was how long he had to come up with a plan before the water cooled too much.

"Hey, does anyone have any extra clothes?" he called nervously. He was met with silence. "Anyone?"

* * *

By the time MacCready arrived at Myra's house, blushing deeply as he struggled to keep an old blue bathrobe closed around his body, he was certain that at least half of Sanctuary had seen at least half of him. Prank or not, Danse was going to pay. That was a certainty.

Myra was curled up in her chair next to the window, sipping on a cup of coffee. Danse stood beside her, reading a well-loved copy of Guns and Bullets . The smell of brahmin steak and eggs filled the air, and MacCready could see a skillet on the old stove, its lid covered in condensed steam. His stomach growled loudly, and Myra turned her head, flashing him a winning smile.

"Nice outfit," Myra said, stifling a laugh. "Your timing couldn't be better. I was just about to pull breakfast off the heat. Are you hungry?"

The mercenary nodded, glaring at Danse, who casually flipped to a new page in his magazine. "I'm starving."

"Well, go ahead and sit down at the table, then," Myra said with a gentle smile as she stood and walked into the kitchen. "Your clothes are on the table, if you want to go change first. Though I have to admit, you're definitely making that look work."

"Trust me, it wasn't by choice," the mercenary replied. "Danse didn't exactly leave me any options. I'll admit, I'd be a lot more comfortable in my own clothes."

"Well, there's no rush," Myra murmured. "You can use my room, as long as you promise not to steal all of my stuff."

"Well, I promise I won't steal most of it," MacCready replied with a grin. "Is that good enough?"

She laughed. "Fine. But if anything's missing, I'll know it was you."

"Aww, man," he replied in mock disappointment, "but that takes all the fun out of it!"

Danse glanced up, his deep brown eyes narrowed. "Hurry up. You're not the only one who hasn't eaten yet today."

MacCready contemplated snarking back to the Paladin, but decided against it. If he really wanted to make the man pay, he had to be patient, catch him completely of guard. Besides, he was hungrier than he'd been in years. Like hell was he going to waste time now. After changing quickly back into his duster, he sat down at Myra's dining room table with a happy sigh. How long had it been since he'd had a clean shirt? Or clean socks? It felt good to be a little more put-together again.

Myra smiled as she set a plate of food in front of him. "Has Marcy had any luck getting a salt supplier yet?" she asked.

MacCready shook his head as he carved into the steak in front of him. "You'd think it'd be easy to find a spice dealer, but no one seems willing to carry salt in their caravans. Something about highwaymen targeting caravans that carry it. Either there's some really hungry raiders out there, or the black market's got a use for the stuff."

She sighed. "I'll ask Preston to get his people on it. If someone's after that much salt, it can't be for a good reason, right?"

"Yeah, if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it'll be those people Kes brought in," the mercenary replied. "Heck, I can't think of anyone who wouldn't want to help reopen those trade routes. No one likes bland food that much." He took another large bite. "Speaking of," he mumbled past his mouthful, "what did you use to season this? It's awesome."

Myra laughed. "It's nothing much. Just some stuff I had lying around, rosemary and garlic powder, plus some salt and pepper. But don't tell anyone, okay? I don't want word getting out that I've got a stash."

MacCready frowned. "pre-War herbs, huh? No wonder this tastes so good! You've got to let me see your spice cabinet!"

"Maybe some other time, Mac," she replied with a grin. "I'm afraid it's under some pretty heavy security. But it's good to see you feeling better. You gave me quite a scare."

"Yeah, sorry about that," the mercenary replied. "I just…" he sighed. "I just have a lot to process. What happened with Lori, my arm...there's a lot on my mind. And it was really easy to just let it get to me."

"Well, I hope you won't just bottle it all up like that again," Myra said, resting her hand gently on the top of his head. "You've got to let your friends help you carry the heavy stuff. It's what we're here for."

MacCready's eyes teared up as he thought about his other friends, back in the Capital Wasteland. Heather had told the mercenary something similar when he'd first arrived on her doorstep, Duncan sleeping soundly in his arms as he staggered in, covered in Lucy's blood. She'd cleaned him up, made up a safe place for him and Duncan to sleep. The next day, she and her loudmouth husband had offered to let them stay, giving them a piece of land right next to their farm.

When Duncan had gotten sick, Heather was the one who'd urged him to do whatever he could to find a cure. She'd even offered to come with him, but with a small child of her own, MacCready had refused her help. Instead, she agreed to look after his son, to do what she could for him, even at the risk of her own family. He would always be grateful to her for that.

MacCready had never thought he'd find another person who cared as much about his well-being as Heather did. But now, with Myra, he felt like he finally had. He was beyond grateful for all that she'd done for him, all that she was still doing for him. But at the same time, he couldn't shake the growing dread that built up in the back of his mind. He owed her too much. It was a debt he could never repay, and that worried him.

"So, Danse said we have a new mission," MacCready said, trying to ignore the thoughts that plagued him. "Where are we going?"

"Well," Myra replied with a nervous laugh, "you're not going to like it."

The mercenary gulped. "That bad, huh? Maybe I shouldn't have insisted on coming with you."

Danse cleared his throat. "That would have been a wiser decision. I'm not sure how much help you'll be against a Courser."

MacCready stared at Myra in disbelief. He'd never seen a Courser, but if stories about them could be believed, they were beyond dangerous. Going after one was essentially suicide. "You two lunatics are going after a Courser? Are you fu...are you crazy, My?"

Myra nodded. "I know it sounds like a bad idea, but it's the only way to get into the Institute, Mac. It's the only way I can find my son." She cleared his empty plate. "You can sit this out if you want," she added. "I know it's insanely dangerous."

"Damn right it's dangerous!" MacCready bellowed, his chair scraping against the floor as he stood. He turned to Danse. "You're seriously going along with this?"

"Larimer's right," the Paladin said softly. "I would prefer it if we had another option, but at this juncture, we don't. I promised Larimer that I would help her find her son, no matter the cost. But as far as I'm aware, you've made no such promise. If you would rather remain here, no one will force you to assist us."

MacCready sighed. "As if I'd let you go without me. Fine. I'll help you. But I'm going to need you to promise me something."

"Anything, Mac," Myra replied with a gentle smile. "You've more than earned it."

The mercenary took a deep breath. "I...look, I don't go around sharing this with just anyone. When I came to the Commonwealth, I had to leave my son behind. Duncan…he's sick, with some god-awful disease almost no one I've talked to has seen before. I have a lead on a cure, but I need help getting to it. If I help you get the courser chip, I want you to swear to me that you'll help me get that cure. I know I already owe you, more than I can ever make up for. But please, My. He's all I have left."

Myra stared at MacCready for a moment before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. "I had no idea," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. You have my word, Mac. A son for a son seems like a pretty fair trade."

MacCready felt the tension leave his body as he relaxed in her arms. Finally, Duncan had a chance. With Myra's skills, they'd definitely be able to recover the cure. And then, MacCready could finally go home, could see his son and his friends again, could do his best to finally turn his life around and make an honest go of things. "Thank you," he whispered. "Just...thank you."

After a long while, Myra let go of him, and MacCready stepped back awkwardly as he noticed Danse's eyes burning into him. Could the Paladin be any more obvious about how jealous he was? It would have made MacCready laugh if it wasn't so intimidating. Didn't Danse realize that he had nothing to worry about? For better or worse, Myra was completely his. Any fool could see that.

Besides, it wasn't as if MacCready was even interested in her like that. They were friends. Hell, they were best friends. But the mercenary was a mess, and although Myra went out of her way to help him, he still didn't want her to get too caught up in his problems. She'd done more than enough for him already. MacCready couldn't dare to hope that she'd ever be his. It wasn't even worth thinking about.

"Well, since you're coming," Myra said, "I've got a present for you."

MacCready's eyes narrowed. "What sort of present?" He asked.

She laughed, leaving the dining room and retreating to her bedroom. "Now where did I…" she muttered, her voice muffled. "...oh! Here it is!" Myra returned with a pair of long bundles wrapped in threadbare cloth. "Since you're still having trouble with your aim," she said, handing the first package to him, "I had Sturges rig up a little something for you. He dropped it off while you were in the bath. It's just a prototype, so I'm not sure if it'll fix everything, but it should at least help with some of the weakness and shaking."

MacCready unwrapped the package eagerly. Inside was a long piece of hinged metal, leather straps laced through holes along both flat edges. "What is this?" he asked, holding the thing up and looking at it from every angle."

"It's kind of like a brace," Myra replied, "and also kind of like armor. I know it's bulky, and if you don't want to try it, I understand. I got this for you if it doesn't work," she continued, holding out the other object. MacCready set the brace down on the dining room table and opened the package, laughing as he realized what it was. He'd recognize the double-headed axe anywhere.

"Grognak's Axe?" he asked in disbelief. "Myra, you didn't!"

"Oh, yes, I did," she said with a cheeky grin. "I found that in Hubris Comics a while back, and held onto it for a day like today. If you want, you can have both the axe and the brace. Use the axe as a backup or something. I know it's heavy, but I'm sure you can manage."

"I…I don't know what to say!" the mercenary exclaimed. "No one's ever...oh man, you have no idea how awesome this is!"

Myra smiled, taking the brace from the table. "Come on, GrogMac the Barbarian. Let's get this on you."

MacCready groaned. "Please tell me you didn't give me the axe just so you could call me that."

Myra laughed, tightening the leather straps on his arm. "Don't be silly. That's why I also brought the costume home. I'd give that to you too, but I'm not sure you want to face down a Courser shirtless and screaming."

"That would be one heck of a power move," the mercenary agreed. "Deacon would be so jealous if we told him about it later."

"It would certainly be a spectacle," Danse offered. "Perhaps he could distract the Courser with barbaric shenanigans while you sneak up behind it, Larimer."

Myra laughed. "How's the brace feel, Mac?"

MacCready raised his arm carefully, bending it at the elbow. The metal contraption was heavy, and the straps were a little uncomfortable, but he couldn't deny that his arm felt more stable. "It's not bad," he said, stretching his arm out. "It'll be an adjustment, but yeah. I think it'll help." MacCready smiled warmly at Myra. "Thanks, My."

"You can thank me by getting me into the Institute, Mac," she replied. "That'll be more than enough."

"Well, then," MacCready said with a grin, "where's this Courser of yours?"

"We're not actually sure," Myra replied. "We've got a vertibird on standby to take us to the old C.I.T. ruins, but we'll have to track him on foot from there." She waved her Pip-Boy at him. "Virgil gave me the frequency to search for. All we need to do is find where the signal's the strongest, and that's where we'll find him."

"I'm always up for a little tracking," the mercenary said, "but that part of the Commonwealth's not exactly the safest. I can think of at least three raider gangs we'll need to look out for, not to mention ferals and mutants. Are you sure the three of us can handle that and the courser?"

Danse sighed. "MacCready, you can stay here if you'd prefer. No one would blame you."

"Are you kidding?" MacCready protested. "Like I'd let you have all the fun! I'm coming with. I just wanted you two to be prepared. Cambridge isn't exactly a cakewalk." Danse and Myra smiled at each other, and MacCready looked between them, confused. "What? What's so funny?"

"We are well aware of the hazards," Danse replied. "In fact, we've already asked our old squad to clear the area for us. It should be easy enough for us to take care of any undesirables Knight Rhys left behind."

"The Brotherhood has an outpost at the Police Station," Myra added. "I thought you knew that. It's where Danse and I met."

"No, I didn't know that," MacCready grumbled. "It would have been nice to know the rest of the plan, My."

"I didn't think it'd be an issue," she replied. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Just…" MacCready sighed. "You guys are acting like you're running this mission alone. I said I'd help. That means I'd like to be included in more than just the killing, okay? You might not realize it, but I'm pretty good at tactics, not just hitting targets."

Myra nodded. "I didn't think about it like that, Mac. I'm sorry. You're right. I should have told you what we were planning."

The mercenary smiled slightly. "I know you didn't mean it as an insult. And it's really not that big of a deal. I'm not mad. I just want to be useful for more than just sniping. Especially if this brace thing doesn't pan out."

"You already are, Mac," Myra said gently. "I'll try harder to prove it to you."

MacCready felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "My, come on. You don't have to take it so seriously."

She grinned. "If it gets me a reaction like that, I'm going to take it exactly that seriously."

Danse frowned slightly, staring out the window. MacCready wondered what the Paladin was thinking about, but he knew better than to ask. After a long moment, Danse cleared his throat. "We should head to the rendezvous point," he said abruptly. "We can't count on this weather holding, and I'd prefer not to trudge through Cambridge in the rain."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound like a great time," MacCready agreed.

Myra nodded. "Danse, if you don't mind grabbing our packs, I'd like to wash these dishes really quick. Mac, do you have what you need?"

The mercenary shook his head. "My stuff's back at the bar. I'll meet you two at the gate."

* * *

As Myra and Danse had promised, the route the trio took through Cambridge was remarkably clear of raiders. Here and there, bodies and piles of faintly glowing ash remained as traces of the gangs that patrolled the area, but Danse's team had done an excellent job of clearing the way.

Myra walked quickly in front of the two men, her eyes locked on her Pip-Boy as she tried to pinpoint the location of the Courser's signal. Danse and MacCready followed close on her heels, keeping an eye out for danger and possible obstacles. The mercenary had to admit that it felt good to be back in the field, better than he'd thought it would. Having something to focus on definitely seemed to lift his spirits.

Myra stopped in front of a large, green metal building, frowning at the screen on her arm. "Looks like this is it," she muttered. "Are you guys ready?"

MacCready glanced at the crumbling concrete sign outside of the building. Greentech Genetics . That sounded like all kinds of fun. He sighed. "Ready to fight a homicidal robot? I mean, is anyone ever really ready for something like this?"

Danse nodded. "There's no telling what horrors await beyond these doors," he mused. "But as long as we stick to the plan and watch out for each other, I have every confidence in our victory."

Myra beamed up at the Paladin. "Ad Victoriam, Danse. Let's do this." She opened the door, crouching behind the doorframe as cover. Only silence met her, and she frowned. "Well, I wasn't expecting fanfare," she muttered, "but isn't it strange that no one started shooting at us?"

Danse walked past her into the building, glancing around carefully. "Larimer, it looks like someone already took down the welcoming committee."

"Really?" she exclaimed, following him inside.

Lying across the reception desk was a Gunner, a single laser shot to the head the only visible wound on his corpse. The wound itself had been cauterized by the laser round, but the smell of singed flesh and blood still permeated the air in the facility. Myra gagged, covering her mouth.

"Normally, I'd be thrilled to see a dead Gunner," MacCready said, gripping his axe, "but I get the impression that in this case, that just means that things are about to get a lot worse."

"I agree with MacCready," Danse muttered. "This man died recently, and whoever killed him was an impeccable shot. We need to be on our guard."

"Oh, come on, you two," Myra sighed. "Our courser's definitely been through here, so that means the tracker works. Now, we just have to find him."

"Well, in that case," MacCready said, "I guess we should just follow the bodies, right?"

Myra nodded. "And Danse is right. We need to be careful. Don't take any chances. We have no idea what a courser's really capable of, but from what I've heard, it's not going to be an easy fight, even with three of us."

"Affirmative," Danse replied. "I'll take point. Larimer, you and MacCready should watch each other's flanks, and stay behind me whenever possible. I'll do what I can to protect you." The three of them moved in tandem, Danse walking a few feet ahead while Myra and MacCready continued side by side, scanning for any living adversaries.

They didn't have to wait long. By the time they reached the second floor lobby, it was clear that the building was swarming with Gunners, and not just dead ones. A panicked voice of what MacCready presumed was the unit's commander cried out over the building's intercom as surviving mercenaries swarmed the trio. "Who the hell just came in through the lobby?" the voice exclaimed. "Don't tell me there's another Courser! Someone get down there and find out what's happening!"

"Well, damn," Myra said with a grin. "I didn't know we were going to get to kill Gunners today! I would have packed a picnic."

"Damn it, Larimer," Danse growled as a laser blast nearly grazed Myra's face, "stay focused! You can crack wise after we've completed our mission."

"Noted," she replied quietly, her emerald eyes wide with fear. She shook the feeling off with a deep breath before firing back at her attacker, smiling in self-satisfaction as the man burst into flames.

MacCready readied his sniper rifle, frowning as he adjusted his grip to compensate for the brace. "I guess now's a good time to see if this works," he said with a sigh. He took aim at one of the approaching mercs, and gently squeezed the trigger. The man dropped to his knees, bright blood blossoming across his abdomen. MacCready cursed under his breath. "Damn it, I was going for a headshot," he muttered. He'd never been a fan of making the people he killed suffer. He was a sniper, not a sadist.

"You'll get the hang of it," Myra replied as she finished the keening Gunner off with a laser round. "And I think you're about to get plenty of practice."

The mercenary nodded. "Guess it's just not their lucky day. First a Courser, then a wildly inaccurate sniper. Sorry, boys. Looks like mercy's just not on the table."

They cleared the crowd of Gunners quickly before ascending to the next floor of the building. A hail of gunfire resounded above their heads, as the dying screamed in horror. "Barricade as many corridors as you can!" the commander's voice pleaded. "We have to slow the Courser down, damn it! And keep an eye out for whoever's below us."

Myra grinned. "Always nice to get a mention," she mused, taking aim at a machine gun turret. "Though I'm not thrilled that we're taking second billing."

"Don't worry, My," MacCready quipped as he hit a Gunner in the groin. "We'll come out on top."

Danse pushed forward across a narrow bridge, clearing the other side of the building meticulously. MacCready had to admit, the Paladin's aim was impressive, if a bit mechanical. There was no finesse to his gunplay, just sterile precision. All the same, the mercenary made a mental note never to find himself on the other side of that laser rifle if he could help it. Perhaps pranking Danse wasn't such a great idea after all.

"Holy shit," Myra groaned, "If these are just the stragglers, how many Gunners were here before the Courser arrived?"

"This must have been a pretty major base," MacCready agreed. "I'm surprised that I never knew this was here. Maybe they only took this place over recently."

"Either way, they're getting evicted," she replied. "I think we're almost to the top. Let's keep going."

The trio pressed onward amid a hail of laser fire, clearing room after room as they wound their way through a labyrinth of blockaded halls and destroyed passages. It was hard to tell how much of the damage was recent and how much had occurred when the bombs fell, but either way, the climb seemed more difficult the higher they went. Eventually, they came to an elevator, and Danse motioned Myra and MacCready inside.

"Remember," he warned, "exercise extreme caution with this Courser. I highly doubt that he'll give up without a fight."

Myra nodded. "Mac, I'd like you to hang back and provide cover fire. Keep an eye on the door in case we missed any Gunners, and don't let the Courser through."

MacCready smiled grimly. "I'm on it, My. No one's getting in or out."

"Good," she replied. "Danse, it's up to you to keep the Courser occupied. But please, be smart about it. I'll be pissed if either of you die today. Is that clear?"

The Paladin nodded. "Affirmative. I'll pin him down."

Myra's eyes darkened. "I want the two of you to promise me something. If anything...If I don't make it, please, save my son."

MacCready shook his head. "You're getting out of this alive, Myra."

She smiled sadly at the mercenary. "I'd prefer that outcome myself. But just in case. Please. You two have to promise that you'll find a way to get to Shaun."

Danse sighed. "Larimer, I won't let you die today. But if for some reason I fail to protect you, I give you my word that I will not fail your son."

Myra took his hand in hers, giving it a tight squeeze. "Thank you, Danse. I know you'll do everything you can."

"Well, if you think I'm letting Danse take all the credit, you're crazy," MacCready said, trying to suppress the dread that squirmed like maggots in his gut. "I'll be there until the job's done, with or without you." He locked eyes with her, pleading. "Just, please, My, let's make sure it's with you."

She nodded. "I'll do my best. And Mac?"

"Yeah?" the mercenary replied.

Myra took his hand with her free one, staring into his eyes. "I'm making you the same promise. If you...if you don't come back with us, I'll find the cure for your son, if it's the last thing I do."

"I…" he nodded. "Thank you."

She closed her eyes, holding onto her companions tightly. MacCready could feel her tremble as the elevator continued to rise, her face pale. " Rex tremendæ majestatis ," she whispered, " qui salvandos salvas gratis, salva me, fons pietatis. Recordare, Jesu pie, quod sum causa tuæ viæ: ne me perdas illa die ."

MacCready wanted to ask her what she was saying, but before he got the chance, the elevator doors slid open, revealing a narrow room. Myra quickly released his hand, readying her laser rifle. "No mistakes," she murmured. "We'll probably only get one shot at this."

Danse nodded. "Larimer, I…" He sighed. "I'm extremely proud of you. I hope that you know that."

She smiled gently at the Paladin. "It's been an honor, sir. Now, let's send this synth bastard to hell."

"Outstanding!" Danse exclaimed, charging up the stairs.

Myra turned to MacCready. "Thank you, Mac. For everything."

He frowned. "Stop talking like you're going to die," he muttered. "You aren't allowed to die until I've had a chance to pay you back. You know I hate it when things aren't even."

Myra laughed. "I'll take that under advisement." With that, she followed Danse up the stairs, MacCready hot on her heels.

When they finally reached the top of the building, the courser was waiting for them. He seemed...more normal them MacCready had been expecting. Outside of his long, black coat and the small pile of dead mercs at his feet, the synth could have easily passed for anyone. The Courser eyed them warily.

"Are you here for the synth?" it asked in an unexpectedly gentle voice.

Danse frowned. "There's another synth here?" he asked.

"So you aren't here for it," the Courser replied. "That means you're here for me. What do you want?"

Myra rolled her eyes. "What do you think, genius? We need that chip in your neck."

The Courser readied his gun with an almost sad sigh, his pale eyes watching Myra carefully. "That you cannot have. I suggest you leave, now. I would hate to kill you."

"Unfortunately," Danse growled, "we don't share your sentiment."

Myra nodded to MacCready, and he backed out of the room, using the doorframe for cover. "Now!' she cried, and she and Danse opened fire.

The Courser frowned, activating a stealth field. "Very well," he mused. "If you insist, I'll make this as painless as possible."

"Wish I could say the same!" Myra retorted as she fired at the space he'd inhabited. Bright fire illuminated the Courser's outline as her incendiary rounds found their mark. "There he is!" she shouted. "Keep him busy, Danse!"

The Paladin charged forward, backing the Courser into the far corner of the room. Myra quickly climbed to a platform above the battle, situating herself behind a metal crate. She took careful aim at the fiery outline of the Courser, bolts of hot red laser fire screaming past Danse and into the blaze. The Paladin grunted in pain as one of the Courser's blue bolts grazed his cheek, burning the skin in its wake. Still, he kept the synth in place, shooting into him at point-blank.

MacCready sneered as a pair of Gunners rushed the stairs. "Don't even think about it," he warned, rifle trained at the first one's head. "No way I'm missing at this range."

They held their hands up in surrender. "Okay, geez. You can keep the damn synth," one of them muttered under her breath. "I quit. This gig sucks."

MacCready chuckled. "Good call. Now get out of here before I decide not to be so nice. And hell, maybe think about leaving the Gunners. Otherwise, I'm probably going to kill you eventually anyway."

The other Gunner rolled his eyes. "No one leaves the Gunners," he said.

MacCready shook his head. "I sure as hell did. But hey, your choice. If you want to do an honest day's work for a change, though, you should go talk to Preston Garvey at the Castle. The Minutemen could use a few good shots. They sure don't pay as well as the Gunners, but there's less risk. And who knows? You might actually enjoy being the good guys for once."

The Gunners looked at each other for a long moment before charging back down the stairs. MacCready wasn't sure if they'd follow his advice, but it didn't really matter. Wither the Minutemen just earned a couple extra guns, or MacCready had a couple more faces to put with his enemies. Either way, Myra and Danse didn't have to worry about getting flanked.

He turned his attention back to the battle. The Courser's stealth field seemed to be weakening, and the synth was breathing heavily, his aim becoming more and more erratic. Myra cried out in triumph as her shot toppled the synth, and Danse pinned the Courser down with a heavy steel boot.

Myra jumped from her perch, approaching the Paladin. "Good work, Danse," she said, impressed. "I really thought that was going to be a lot harder than it was."

Danse nodded. "Agreed. Either these Coursers are less formidable than we've been led to believe, or it simply wasn't prepared for our assault. Either way, we have what we need now."

Myra nodded, pulling a knife from her boot. She tore into the synth's neck, her fingers slick with blood as she felt around for the chip. "I think I've got it!" she exclaimed, extracting a small device from the Courser's body. The synth struggled slightly, its face contorted in pain. Myra knelt beside it, her eyes cold as she snapped its neck.

MacCready grimaced as bile rose in his throat. He knew Myra was focused on her mission, but he hadn't expected such a brutal action from her. The Commonwealth was changing her, toughening her up, and that wasn't a bad thing. But there was a bloodlust in her that concerned him. If left unchecked, it could be a real problem in the future. He approached her carefully, making sure to make enough noise not to startle her. "So we're good?" he asked calmly.

Myra looked up at him, and he saw the coldness leave her eyes, replaced with the gentle light he'd grown accustomed to seeing in their green depths. "Yeah. I think we are. Holy cow, I was not expecting that to work."

MacCready chuckled. "That was pretty obvious from the way you were freaking out in the elevator," he teased.

"Oh, shut up," she muttered, wiping her hands on the courser's coat. "Let's get out of-"

"I could use some help over here!" cried a panicked voice from behind a set of locked doors.

MacCready peered through the room's windows. "There's a girl in there!" he exclaimed.

Danse frowned. "It's probably the synth the Courser was referring to. We should put it down."

The mercenary shook his head. "Why? I'm no fan of synths, but she seems like she's in trouble. Why kill her?"

"Synths are an abomination against the natural order," Danse retorted coldly. "They are the sworn enemy of the Brotherhood, another example of technology running amuck. It's our duty to destroy it."

Myra's eyes flitted between the two of them as the men argued. Finally, she cleared her throat. "I'll take care of it," she said sternly. Danse, I want you to make sure our route out of here is clear."

The Paladin nodded. "You're right, Larimer. You should do the honors. After all, this is your victory."

She smiled warmly at him as he left the room. As soon as he was out of sight, however, her smile faded. "Mac?" she asked softly.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Do you think…" she sighed. "I'm sorry. You don't need to worry about me." She walked over to the console, opening the security door. "Come on out," she said gently. "No one's going to hurt you. You're safe now."

The synth carefully peeked out from behind the doorframe. "I...are you certain?" she asked, her eyes wide.

Myra nodded. "Give us a few minutes to clear out before you leave." She rummaged in her pack, extracting a scrap of filthy paper. "If you need help, go to these coordinates. I have friends who can take care of you."

The synth shook her head. "I've got to learn to survive on my own," she murmured. "The Commonwealth is brutal. I can't trust anyone."

Myra smiled, pressing the slip into the synth's hands. "I understand. But if you change your mind, the offer's open. Good luck."

"Thank you," the synth replied. "I won't forget this."

Myra waved to her over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "Come on, Mac," she muttered. "Danse will get suspicious if we take too long."

As they continued down the stairs, MacCready turned to Myra, his brow furrowed. "You lied to Danse," he whispered. "Are you sure that's something you want to do?"

She shook her head. "I didn't lie. I took care of her, didn't I?" She sighed. "Look, I don't want to keep secrets from him. But how do you think he'd react if I asked him to spare her? The Brotherhood's position on synths is clear."

"So why do you support them, Myra?" the mercenary asked. "If you don't agree with what they stand for, why do you still work for them?"

Myra sighed. "I...I agree with a lot of what Maxson says. A lot of what the Codex says. I think the Brotherhood of Steel really does have good intentions. But I just wish they'd understand that there are nuances to things. Synths are extremely dangerous. But that doesn't mean that they have to be killed for no reason. I want to help them understand that. If we really can't tell the difference between gen 3 synths and humans, doesn't that mean something?"

"They're still machines," MacCready said. "They aren't people."

"But we don't know that for sure," Myra replied. "Until I know more about how they're made, I'm going to judge them the same way I judge humans. Kill the bad ones. Protect the good ones. That's all I can do. I won't risk killing an innocent person just because they're a synth. That doesn't sit right with me."

MacCready nodded. "I suppose that makes sense," he replied. "I'm not sure I agree with you either, but in this case, I think you did the right thing. Just..." he sighed. "Look, if you care about Danse, you're going to have to be honest with him eventually. Take it from me, you don't want that kind of thing hanging over your relationship."

Myra frowned slightly, her eyes distressed. "I...I know. I wish things weren't so complicated. Hell, I don't even know how I feel about him. Not really. I guess I have a lot to think about, huh?" she added with a heavy sigh.

"Yeah. Sounds like you do," MacCready replied. "I wish there was any easy way to handle this, My. I really do. But you're going to have to decide what you really stand for, sooner or later. And you're going to have to accept that your decisions will have consequences. I know it sucks, but that's life."

They continued on in silence until they arrive at the lobby, where Danse stood, lost in thought. The Paladin barely noticed as they approached him, his eyes a thousand miles away. MacCready shook his head. Those two were so hopeless.

"It's done," Myra said calmly.

Danse stiffened in surprise before meeting her eyes. He smiled at her, nodding in approval. "Outstanding."

"I'm going to find someone who can help me get the data off of this thing," Myra said, fiddling the chip carefully between her fingers. "Are you up for another long walk, Danse?"

"I'll have to decline. I need to report back in to Maxson," Danse said stiffly. "I want the Brotherhood prepared to move on whatever information you can get off that chip."

Myra nodded. "I understand, Danse. Thank you again for all your help." She looked to the mercenary. "So, Mac, you up for it?"

"Is it ok if I sit this one out, too?" he asked. "I have to finalize the plan for our trip to Med-Tek Research. Tell you what? Meet me in Starlight after you get back from your trip to the Institute."

"Okay, I guess that works." Myra thought for a moment. "Hey, have you heard anything from Deacon lately? Are he and Nick done with their investigation?"

MacCready shrugged. "I honestly haven't heard one way or the other. You know how Deacon is. He'll just vanish for a while, then next thing you know, he'll be sitting next to you dressed as an old man and asking if you've seen his grandkids or something. If you want to know what he's up to, you should just go back to…" he looked over at Danse, frowning. "...that place he hangs out," MacCready finished.

Myra nodded. "Yeah. I guess since I'm going alone anyway, I could just meet him there."

Danse gave her a strange look. "Where are you rendezvousing with Deacon?" he asked. "Why would you have to meet him alone?"

Myra's eyes widened as she tried to think of an excuse.

"Deacon works for the black market sometimes," MacCready interjected. "He gets really skittish when too many people show up to his meetings. Can you blame him?"

Danse frowned. "I suppose not. But I'm not so sure you should be associating with someone like him, Larimer. The wasteland's dangerous enough without diving into the criminal underbelly."

Myra smiled gently at the Paladin. "I promise I won't get involved in any shady backroom deals, Danse."

MacCready cleared his throat. "Any more backroom deals, you mean. I mean, My, we literally met in a back room."

"See?" Myra said, motioning to the mercenary. "Even though the last backroom deal I made worked out pretty well, I promise I won't buy any more mercenaries or discount chems. Is that good enough?"

Danse sighed. "Every time I let you out of my sight, Larimer, I come to regret it later."

She chuckled. "I'll miss you too, Danse. Say hi to Maxson for me, will you?"

The Paladin nodded. "I'll take the vertibird, so I'm afraid the two of you will have to either catch another one or walk."

"I'll walk," Myra said. "Mac, do you want me to call a second 'bird for you?"

The mercenary shook his head. "I think I'd rather walk too. I could use some more target practice. Besides, there's a few things I wanted to pick up in Diamond City on the way back."

"Will you be okay on your own?" Myra asked, concerned.

"What, so I'm not capable of defending myself any more?" MacCready teased. "I'll be fine, My. You just worry about yourself."

She smiled, pulling him into a hug. "Call Preston on the radio if you get into any trouble. We've got friends all over now. Someone will be able to help if you need it."

He nodded. "I will. See you at Starlight."

Myra grinned. "See you."

And with that, MacCready found himself alone once more. This time, though, he wasn't nervous. Soon, he'd have Duncan's cure in his hands. For the first time in a long time, everything was finally going to be okay.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES: _I don't usually include these, but I thought it might be nice to explain the Latin. _**_**Myra is praying part of the "Dies Irae" in this chapter, frequently used as part of the Mass for the Dead. The words she says basically translate to "King of fearsome majesty, who freely saves those who are saved, save me, Font of Mercy. Remember, merciful Jesus, that I am the cause of thy way (the reason you came to earth, basically). Do not forget me on that day (that you return in the Second Coming)." I've always loved this prayer, because it's pretty badass. If you've never heard it, look up one of the chant versions on Youtube. It's beautiful. I thought it'd be an appropriate thing for her to have on her mind as she faces the Courser.**_

**Also, We're getting close to the end of another volume (only 3 chapters to go!). That means it's time for me to pick what side story I'm going to write between "The Fates That Numbered Our Days" and the ominously-titled "The Fates That Tore Us Apart". I'm having a hard time deciding what to do, so I thought I'd open it up to you guys! Would you rather read about:**

**1\. The Adventures of Knight Danse and Squire Maxson (Filling in some of the time between Fallout 3 and 4 with how they became friends, etc.)**

**2\. Nick and Deacon hunting the man behind the creation of Lori**

** 3\. Some pre-War fluff between Myra and Nate**

**4\. Suggest whatever else you want to read! Do you want to see my take on Nuka-World? Really curious about what Hancock's been up to for the last few months? Or Pipes? I'm definitely open to suggestions, if none of the above choices appeal to you, and I like the challenge. Heck, even if I don't use your idea this time, if I like it, I'll still write it as a special gift to you, since I can't get enough of this setting!**

**I'd love to hear from all of you, if there's something you want to see. If you haven't noticed by now, I love interacting with you guys. It makes me so happy that other people care about this ill-advised, massive project of mine. But even if you don't care what I do next, I still really appreciate you all!**

**Your Faithful Scribe,**

**Mnemoli**


	15. The Whispering Shadows

**15\. The Whispering Shadows**

_Agent Whisper brings the Courser chip to the Railroad. When faced with one of the scariest decisions of her life, she turns to Deacon for support._

* * *

Deacon hummed distractedly to himself as he put the finishing touches on his latest project, a well-stocked common room near the HQ escape tunnel he called _The Crossbuck_ . Ever since he and Nick had finished their work together, the spy had dedicated himself to creating the strange little lounge, insisting that the Railroad needed a place for agents to relax between missions. The current layout was a few old couches he'd dragged underground, some chairs in various states of disrepair, and a few dilapidated tables. The far wall housed a radio, as well as a well-stocked liquor cabinet and a few stained glasses. A large bookshelf took up a fair amount of room against the other wall, stocked with everything from comics to half-burnt biology textbooks, whatever Deacon managed to salvage in his travels. Faded rugs tied the space together well enough. The entrance from the main room was marked by a large railroad crossing sign, the lounge's namesake.

Reactions to his pet project had been mixed. Drummer Boy in particular seemed thrilled to have a more comfortable place to wait between his dead drop runs. Glory, on the other hand, thought the whole thing was a monumental waste of time. Desdemona had been the hardest sell, of course, complaining that any extra power use or noise might draw unwanted attention to the Railroad Base, but Deacon had won her over to the idea after he reminded her that agent burnout rates continued to skyrocket month after month. The truth was, in spite of their best efforts, the Railroad wasn't regaining enough numbers to make up for the agents they lost in the field. Everyone was stressed out, exhausted, and overworked. Stress led to mistakes, mistakes led to death, and then the survivors had even more work cut out for them. It was a vicious cycle. Something had to be done.

For Deacon, the lounge was a way to help him forget some of what he'd seen on his investigation. He'd needed a distraction, and the Railroad had a need. It was funny how often things worked that way in his life.

The door at the far side of the lounge opened slowly, and the spy grinned as Whisper emerged from the escape tunnel, her emerald eyes scanning the room. She'd found a new pair of glasses at some point, he observed, so she wasn't squinting as much. Deacon was also pleased to note that her injuries had healed well, with the exception of a nasty scar that ran the length of her left cheek. Even that injury was less severe than he'd feared. It made her look fierce, less like a bumbling radstag fawn and more like a force to be reckoned with. She wasn't just some cicada. She was a survivor.

Her body language worried Deacon, however. She bristled with nervous energy, her eyes almost haunted behind her glasses, but by what he couldn't say. All was clearly not well in paradise. Something was eating at her, and one way or another, Deacon was going to find out what it was. The last thing he needed was his partner falling apart on him.

"Hey! Whisp!" he called, waving her over.

She walked over to him, confusion evident on her face. "Hey, Deacon," she replied. "What the hell is all this?"

He gestured widely. "Welcome to _The Crossbuck_, the Railroad's premier destination for rest and relaxation. I wanted to make a beach resort, but Dez said no. Something about sand getting everywhere."

Whisper snorted. "I think Tom would actually kill you if you brought sand in here. All those delicate components…"

"And don't get me started on the wave pool," Deacon continued. "The sewer was never gonna be the same."

"I think I'm glad you went with this idea instead," Whisper replied, looking a little green. "Hey, is Dez around?" she asked. "I have something she might be interested in."

Deacon sighed dramatically. "Oh, I see how it is. It's been almost a month, and you're not going to even pretend that you missed me? You're cold, Whisper."

"Like ice," she shot back, grinning. "Besides, just because I didn't see you doesn't mean you didn't see me. I assume you already know why I'm here."

"Actually, I have no idea," he replied sincerely. "Contrary to what your ego might tell you, Whisp, I've had more important things to do than keep tabs on you."

"Besides chumming around with Nick Valentine?" Whisper asked. "How was that, by the way?"

Deacon groaned. "I really don't want to talk about it. And yes, I've been doing other stuff."

She smiled slyly. "Like what?"

The spy smirked. "Remember that whole compartmentalization thing? I'm not supposed to tell you about missions you haven't been briefed on."

"Why not?" Whisper asked. "We're partners, right?"

Deacon snorted, flopping down on one of the couches. "Oh, are we? Seems to me you'd rather hang out with Danse and MacCready these days. The three of you went and had an adventure without me, right?"

"Are you mad that I didn't ask you to come with?" Whisper said, sitting next to him. "I figured you'd rather not help me hunt down a Courser, considering how freaked out you were when you told me about them."

"Hunting a Courser?" Deacon exclaimed. "That's what you were doing?"

Whisper nodded, tossing him a small piece of metal. "Grabbed the bastard's chip, too."

Deacon stared at the chip in amazement. He'd heard rumors, of course, but he wasn't expecting them to be true. People loved to gossip about Whisper, and if every story was to be believed, she was immortal, able to fly, and actually a hyper-intelligent dog wearing a human suit. Okay, so Deacon had come up with the last one. But still, even with what he knew of her skills, it was a little hard to believe that she'd actually fought a Courser and survived. Even with the evidence in his hand, it still seemed a little far-fetched. "I assume you had a good reason, didn't you?" he asked. "You're not still suicidal, right?"

She shook her head. "I've got more to live for now than ever. That bad boy's our ticket to the Institute, apparently," she replied. "Dr. Virgil says we can use it to jack into the transporter signal or something. I was too busy keeping Danse from killing him to really pay attention to all the science crap."

"Well, damn," Deacon said, whistling as he passed the chip back to her. "You have been busy. Let's get this to Dez right away. It's been a long time since we've had access to one of these. Coursers aren't exactly easy to take down. Honestly, how'd you pull it off?"

Whisper chuckled. "I pretended to be an escaped synth and lured him out. Then MacCready knocked him unconscious with a baseball bat, and we took his chip. You should have been there. It was quite a sight."

Deacon laughed. "So you just shot him a bunch, right?"

"Right," she replied. "Danse basically acted like a tank, and I just sniped the bastard from above. Super simple. But I totally could have pretended to be an escaped synth," she added. "That was our backup plan."

"Whisp, you're good," Deacon mused, "But you're not that good." He stood up from the couch, offering her a hand, which she accepted gratefully. "I only know one person who could pull that off," he continued, "and he's way cooler than you will ever be."

"Oh, yeah?" she snarked back as he hoisted her up. "When do I get to meet that guy?"

"Ouch. Well played," he replied with a grin. "Come on. The sooner we get this chip handed over, the sooner you can get back to kicking ass and I can get back to lurking in your shadow."

Whisper smacked him on the arm. "Stalker."

"Hey!" Deacon retorted in mock offense. "Partner! Not stalker. Remember?"

"In your case, Deeks, I'm really not sure there's a difference," she muttered.

"I can't believe after everything I've done for you, that's all you think of me!" the spy huffed. "Yes, I know our relationship started off on a weird foot, but I was only following you because I knew you'd be a fantastic addition to the Railroad."

Whisper crooked an eyebrow at him. "I'll bet you tell that to all the girls you creep on."

He grinned, waggling his eyebrows at her. "Would you believe me if I told you that you're the only one?"

Whisper shook her head. "No way! Gross!"

They cracked up, walking side by side into the main room. Damn, it was good to have Whisper home again. Deacon hadn't even realized how much he'd missed having her around. Well, maybe he had. Maybe that was the other reason he'd been working on his lounge project so much. If he thought about it less, it was easier to forget that something was missing.

Desdemona stood at her normal dais, sighing in frustration as she looked over a clipboard. As Deacon and Whisper approached, she looked up with a frown. Her reddish-brown eyes narrowed dangerously as they met Whisper's. "Agent Whisper," she said with a quiet intensity that seemed to chill the air around her, "would you care to explain what the hell you were doing at _Greentech Genetics_? Because I have a report here that reads like a goddamn comic book."

Whisper sighed. "I suppose it would. Look, Desdemona, I know it wasn't the most secret of operations, but-"

"You're damn right it wasn't!" the older woman growled, her eyes ablaze. "Need I remind you that we are a secret organization, agent? Not only did you blow a rescue operation of ours sky high, nearly killing two of your fellow agents, but you caused so much destruction that every Institute synth in a five mile radius is on high alert. What the hell was so important that you felt the need to make such a flamboyant display?"

"This was," Whisper said with a soft smirk, holding up the Courser chip. "If I can just get the data off of this, I can get into the Institute without an invitation."

Desdemona's eyes widened in shock. "You actually killed that Courser? I didn't believe it when I heard the news. I thought our source was exaggerating. Well, that certainly changes things." She sighed heavily. "Don't take this as acceptance of your methods, however. I'm still furious with you for risking exposure like that."

Whisper nodded. "I'll try to be quieter," she said.

"And perhaps leave the Paladin at home from now on," Dez continued. "If the Brotherhood catches wind of your work for us...let's just say it would be disastrous for everyone involved."

Deacon saw a flash of something akin to pain in Whisper's eyes. So whatever was eating her did have something to do with the Paladin. Because of course it did. Ever since Danse had come into her life, he'd consumed so much of Whisper's attention that it was a miracle she was able to focus on anything besides keeping her soldier happy. But her reaction to Desdemona's reprimand wasn't that of a woman in love. Was she finally starting to realize the dangerous position she'd put herself in by allying herself with the Brotherhood?

Deacon felt for her if that was the case. He, better than most, understood how difficult it was to face the truth in a situation like that. Still, if she was doubting her allegiance, that presented a useful opportunity. If Whisper was souring on the Brotherhood, Deacon might finally have a chance to bring her more solidly into the fold. Dez still didn't trust Whisper's loyalty, and that put both Whisper and Deacon in a precarious position. If Whisper could be convinced to leave the Brotherhood for good, that distrust would gradually fade away.

Whisper nodded slightly, trying to regain her composure. "I understand. But Danse is my friend. I can't just cut him out of my life."

Dez frowned. "You've made that abundantly clear, agent. Don't think I've forgotten your last indiscretion involving Paladin Danse. I don't know how you convinced Carrington to leave HQ with you, but let me remind you that aiding known enemies of the Railroad is not only a serious infraction, but a waste of our resources. We are not your personal servants, Whisper. We are here for one purpose, and that is to liberate synths. Do not presume that you are above our rules just because Deacon gives you so much leniency."

Whisper's eyes flashed with indignation, and she bit her lower lip so hard that Deacon was afraid that she'd draw blood. She stared Desdemona down, not saying a word. Desdemona fiddled with the knife holster on her belt, her eyes never leaving Whisper's.

Finally, Deacon couldn't take it anymore. He stepped between them, pushing Whisper behind him as he took the brunt of Desdemona's glare. "I think it's safe to say that everyone's learned their lesson," he said softly. "So why don't we get back to the matter at hand, Dez? The Courser chip."

Dez nodded, relaxing slightly. Her hand slipped from her belt, and Deacon sighed in relief. Desdemona was a fantastic leader, but her temper was a dangerous liability sometimes. Add in Whisper's stubbornness, and it was a miracle they hadn't killed each other yet.

"I'm grateful that you brought us the chip," Dez said coolly, "so for now, I'll let your behavior slide. But in the future, agent, please remember that your actions don't just affect you. Any breach of security could cost us all our lives. If you can't be trusted to remember that, we may no longer require your services."

Whisper nodded. "I understand, Desdemona," she said curtly. "Paladin Danse won't be involved in any missions I run for the Railroad, or anything that takes me into areas where I know that we are operating. If I had known that there was a rescue operation happening...but I didn't know there was a liberated synth in the building until we were already facing the Courser."

Dez sighed. "I do realize that, agent. And fortunately for you, both our agents managed to escape unharmed. If I seem to be harder on you than usual, I apologize. It has been a difficult day." The Railroad leader gestured towards Tinker Tom's station. "Go see Tom. He'll help you extract the data you need." She turned to Deacon. "Deacon, while Whisper's doing that, you and I are going to have a little chat."

The spy gulped. "Of course, Dez. Anything for you."

Whisper nodded, and within a moment of approaching Tom's station, she was pulled into one of his latest theories about mole rats being genetically engineered by the Institute to plant mines under settlements. Once Whisper was out of earshot, Dez grabbed Deacon by the shoulder, hauling him into the lounge. She deposited him on one of the couches and glared down at him menacingly.

"I've just received a troubling report out of Stanwix," she growled. "Apparently, when Osprey arrived to provide support for Trailblazer, he found the site empty."

Deacon paled. "Empty?'

Desdemona nodded, handing him a slip of paper. "Trailblazer, it seems, has deserted her post. As you know, such behavior cannot be tolerated."

Deacon unfolded the paper, his eyes widening as he read the words inscribed on it.

_Deacon,_

_You should have told me. I thought we were friends._

_-Trailblazer_

His heart ached as he read the words over and over. Damn it, he should have seen this coming! Trail had always been one to think with her heart rather than her head. It was one of the things he liked about her, but it also meant that she tended to behave erratically when she was distraught. After her exile, Deacon had been one of the only people she still trusted. And he'd been too much of a coward to even tell her about Tommy face to face. This was his fault. Deacon crumpled the paper into a ball, gritting his teeth. He knew full well what was coming next.

"Deacon, do you have any idea where she is?" Dez asked.

He shook his head. "There are just too many places where she could have gone, Dez," he replied.

"Well, you'd better think of some options," Desdemona commanded. "You need to find her, convince her to come home. If she won't…"

Deacon nodded. "I know. I'll take care of it. But Dez?"

"What is it, Deacon?" she sighed.

"I...if Whisper needs my help, I'm going to take care of that first. I think we can both agree that getting into the Institute has to be our top priority."

Dez nodded. "Naturally. But if you're just using this as an excuse to shirk your duty, I will send someone else after Trailblazer. You're aware of that, aren't you?"

"Don't worry, Dez," Deacon replied. "I understand my responsibilities. Trust me, I'll get it done."

"If you don't," Desdemona said softly, a hint of warning coloring her voice, "I'm sure you're aware of the consequences. You're an excellent agent, Deacon. It would be a real shame if you went soft on me, now that we're so close to our goal."

Deacon grinned, pushing his inner turmoil aside. "You know me, Dez. I'm a diamond. Harder than steel, and super shiny to boot!"

She sighed. "You're a sentimental fool, and that's the truth. But fortunately for you, you're a difficult man to replace. Difficult," she continued with a dangerous glint in her eye, "but not impossible. Try to keep that in mind."

Deacon nodded. "Trust me, you've made that clear."

Dez smiled slightly. "Good. Let's go see if Whisper's managed to get anything off that chip, or if Tom's still filling her head with his theories."

Deacon stood up, following his boss back into the main room. If he really, really concentrated, he could almost slow the frantic beating of his heart. Things weren't looking good for the spy. Every time he thought he'd regained control of this whole situation, things spiraled out of control again. With Whisper questioning her loyalties and Trail running off to god knows where...Deacon was quickly running out of people he could rely on. He had to find a way to turn things around, and soon.

Tinker Tom stood with his back to them, nervously muttering to himself as he typed furiously on his keyboard. While the man was a whiz with machines, the Institute was known to use some pretty nasty encryptions on their tech. Chances were still pretty slim that the chip would yield anything more than gibberish. Whisper stood off to the side, giving the eccentric inventor room to work. She leaned against one of the crypt's support columns, her eyes distant as she idly played with the chain around her neck.

Deacon noticed with some surprise that the ring on her chain seemed to have shrunk in size, until he noticed that she no longer wore the simple gold band on her finger. So she no longer wore her husband's ring on her neck, choosing to instead carry her own wedding band on the long, silvery chain. What had become of it? Had she lost it, or given it up willingly? The spy couldn't decide if her choice in accessories was a positive change or not.

Whisper's eyes met Deacon's as he approached her, and the contact electrified him. He never understood how she managed to do that, to look past his sunglasses and lock on to his gaze. He hated feeling exposed, especially by her. She smiled apologetically at him, dropping her ring back underneath her battleworn green shirt. "So, did Dez chew you out because of me?" she asked cautiously. "I'm sorry."

Deacon flashed a catlike grin at her. "No, she just wanted me to give her some home decorating tips. Apparently the lounge is a big hit. Can't say I'm surprised. I've always had impeccable taste."

Whisper punched him lightly on the arm. "That's why you picked me, after all. Even from the get-go, you knew I was the best."

He chuckled, grateful for the diversion. Did Whisper realize what a welcome distraction their banter was? "Either I'm rubbing off on you, or you've got to go see Carrington for an examination," Deacon teased. "You seem to be suffering from a dangerous enlargement of the ego."

"It's not bragging if it's true," she said with a wide smile.

"I'm pretty sure it's still bragging," he replied. "If anything, the fact that it's true just makes it less fun somehow."

Whisper gasped in mock surprise. "So you admit it! I am the best!"

Deacon laughed. "Come on, Whisp. Everyone knows I'm a liar. So if I say it's true…"

She pouted. "You're such a jerk."

"It's one of my more lovable qualities!" Deacon replied. "That and my incredible origami skills."

"I'm not sure-"

"Aha!" exclaimed Tinker Tom, beaming in delight as he looked up from his computer terminal. "I've got your data, Whisper! Let me just upload it to your Pip-Boy real quick...and there! You should be all ready to go."

"Thanks, Tom," Whisp said. She turned to Dez. "I'm going to go back to the Glowing Sea and find out our next move."

Desdemona nodded solemnly. "Take Deacon with you. Whatever you find out, report back to us immediately. If there really is a way into the Institute, I'd like to know about it before anyone else does."

Whisper frowned. "I already promised Maxson that I'd share my findings with him. And Preston deserves to know what I'm doing as well. Everyone has a right to this information."

"But not everyone will use it responsibly," Desdemona fumed. "Especially not the Brotherhood of Steel. If they gain entrance to the Institute, they'll slaughter the synths wholesale. You know that. And even the Minutemen have mixed agendas. Can you count on them to save the synths if they get the opportunity to attack the Institute?"

"Desedemona," Whisper growled, "Don't forget who I am. I may be your agent, but I am the leader of the Minutemen. They'll respect my wishes, no matter what I decide. And as for the Brotherhood," she added, her eyes welling with frustration, "I'm well aware of their stance on synths. But unlike the Railroad, the Brotherhood has never lied to me. They're honest about who they are and what their intentions are. I can't say the same for you. So either trust my damn judgement and let me do what I need to do to save my son, or stay the hell out of my way. You do not want a war with me."

Dez glared at her for a moment before pulling away with a sigh. "One of these days, Whisper, you're going to have to make a choice. And when you do, you'd better hope you're on the right side."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Whisper replied bluntly. "But the only one who gets to make that call is me. Don't forget that."

Desdemona scowled as she walked away. "Don't forget, Deacon," she hissed to the spy as she eased past him. "Your agent, your responsibility."

Deacon nodded. "How can I forget?" he muttered under his breath. He reached idly into his pants pocket, fiddling with the bullet he kept there. It was a special round he'd developed himself, light and hollow with a particularly potent poison center, the only one of its kind. It would be a clean, almost painless death, a last mercy. He prayed he'd never have to use it.

Whisper frowned in concern as she watched him. "What's wrong, Deacon?"

He looked up, smiling warmly at her. "Nothing. It's nothing. Shall we get on the road? It's a long walk to the Glowing Sea from here, and I know this great little bar on the way. We could stop for a bite, catch up a little."

She nodded. "That sounds nice," she said. "You have all your gear?"

Deacon hoisted his backpack over one shoulder. "I'm all ready to go," he crooned.

* * *

Deacon grimaced as the helmet on his hazmat suit fogged up in the humid, radioactive air. He wiped at the round glass with one garishly orange arm, sighing in frustration as the motion left streaks across the smooth surface. "So this is the Glowing Sea?" he asked. "What a shithole."

"Tell me about it," Whisper replied as she clambered up a bank of debris. "If you think this sucks, you should try doing it in power armor."

"Yeah, I'm sure you and Danse had a delightful time," Deacon mused. "So why exactly are we here again? You got what you needed from the chip, right?"

Whisper nodded, her glass helmet bobbing. "I think so. But it's all gibberish to me. We still need a way to use the data to get us into the Institute. Dr. Virgil said he might have an idea worked up by the time I got back."

"It's still a terrible place for a meeting," Deacon whined. "What, was the conference center at the _Rexford_ booked or something?"

She sighed. "Trust me, I'm not exactly having a picnic here either, Deeks."

"Wouldn't that be something?" the spy asked, grinning. "Hey, next time we come out here, what do you say? You and me, a bottle of wine, some nice cheeses, severe radiation poisoning?"

Whisper chuckled. "That's a hard pass from me. I like you and all, but I'm not really feeling the whole ghoulification thing."

"I'll make a point never to tell Hancock that," Deacon replied. "He'd be devastated."

"I wouldn't say no to a picnic, though," Whisper said wistfully. "You know, in a less toxic spot. It's been a long time since I've done something like that." She laughed. "Something like 200 years, I guess."

Deacon grinned. "That does seem like a long wait. Maybe if you agree to stop antagonizing our boss, I could arrange something."

"Hey, it's not my fault she's such a hardass," Whisper protested. "Look, Deacon, I understand that the Railroad's been through a lot. But that's no excuse to just steamroll over everyone else the way she does. It's not healthy."

The spy sighed. "Desdemona wasn't always this caustic," he replied. "You have to understand, Whisp, what we do? Saving synths? It's not just dangerous. It's soul-crushing. It's so hard not to take every failure personally. And unfortunately, lately we've been seeing a lot more failures than successes. The Railroad's fighting not just for our survival, but the survival of everyone who depends on us. And at the end of the day, that's all on Dez's shoulders. It's not surprising that she's sometimes...testy."

"I suppose," Whisper said incredulously. "But there's testy and then there's unhinged. I'm worried that she might be edging closer to that border than anyone's ready to admit. And if she crosses that line, the Railroad's going to be in a lot more trouble than we already are. I know you're smart enough to see that."

Deacon nodded. "Yeah. But you squaring up against her isn't going to help, Whisp. The best way to handle Dez is just to stay out of her line of fire. And as your partner, I'd really, really prefer it if you'd do that. If you get taken out, I'm going to be blindfolded right there next to you, and I do not dig the whole 'treason against the state' look."

"I can't just let her bully me into submission, Deeks," Whisper muttered. "I'm not exactly the following orders type."

"So you joined the Brotherhood of Steel why, exactly?" he retorted.

Whisper stopped walking, turning back to face him. Although Deacon couldn't see her face past her mirrored helmet, he was pretty convinced that she was beet red. "Maybe I enjoy being a contradiction," she muttered.

"That, or you're just a huge fan of angry guys with big guns," Deacon joked. "Hey, I get it. Everyone's got a type. Still, if you think Dez is bad, I don't know how you put up with Elder Maxson. That guy's a tool with a capital T."

Whisper shrugged. "People say that, but he's always been pretty kind to me. Awkward as hell, but strangely considerate in his way."

Deacon frowned. "Huh. That doesn't sound like the Elder Maxson I've heard about. Are you sure he hasn't been replaced with a synth?"

Whisper laughed, continuing her trek. "Could you imagine, a synth leading the Brotherhood?" She continued cackling to herself at the thought as she pressed onward up yet another mound of rubble. "We're getting close. I remember that line of cars."

The spy hurried to keep pace with her. "You said the same thing two hours ago. Are you sure we're not lost?"

"Nope! See, there's the cave we're looking for," she said, pointing at a large opening in the rock face. "Let me do the talking, okay?"

Deacon nodded. "I'll be as silent as the grave."

Whisper snorted. "That'll be the day. But just, don't comment on his appearance, okay? He seems kinda sensitive about the whole Super Mutant thing."

As they entered the cave, Deacon couldn't help but be amazed at how much junk Dr. Virgil had accumulated. For a recluse who rarely left his hermitage, he had quite the collection of old equipment. Tinker Tom would have a field day.

"I've got the data!" Whisper announced triumphantly as she approached the mutant.

Virgil almost seemed impressed. "I wasn't actually sure I'd see you again. But I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. You did kill Kellogg, after all." he held a few pieces of paper coated in crayon to her. "Here's what I came up with."

Deacon zoned out as the scientist discussed the particulars of the machine. He really didn't care how the device worked, as long as it did. "Is it safe?" he asked.

The mutant looked at him, mild irritation evident on his ghastly green face. "For the record, I haven't promised anything. No one's ever tried this before. But if it doesn't work, I can at least promise that you'll be vaporized almost instantly, so at least there won't be any pain."

Whisper groaned. "Well, I guess that's an upside."

"Just make sure that whoever helps you build the Signal Interceptor is a competent engineer and follows my instructions exactly," Virgil replied. "Do you know anyone who can help you with this?"

Whisper nodded. "I've made a few friends who might fit the bill. Thanks, Dr. Virgil."

"Don't forget what you promised me," Virgil growled softly. "I need that serum. It's the only way I'll ever be normal."

"I promise, I'll do everything I can to help you after I find my son," Whisper soothed. "I'm not sure how much time I'll have once I get inside, but I'll do my best."

Virgil sighed. "I suppose that will have to do. I really do hope this works, for both of our sakes."

"Yeah," Whisper replied. "I hope so too." She offered the Super Mutant a hand, but he shook his head.

"If the serum works," Virgil growled. "I'm afraid I might accidentally hurt you if I shook your hand now. This terrible strength...I'm still adjusting to it. You should get going. There's a pretty serious radstorm on the way, according to my barometer," he continued, gesturing to a tall glass cylinder half-full of greenish liquid. "If you stay much longer, you might be stuck here for a few days, and I don't think either of us has that kind of time."

"Yeah," Deacon muttered. "I'd rather not be stranded here. Let's go."

Whisper looked back at the mutant one final time, waving to him, before following Deacon back into the Glowing Sea. Once they were safely out of earshot, Whisper screamed in frustration. "How the hell are we going to pull this off, Deacon? And even if we do manage to build the damn thing, what if it doesn't work? Virgil really didn't sound confident."

The spy thought for a moment. "Well, we could ask Tinker Tom. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to work on this Signal Whatchamathingy."

Whisper laughed. "No offense, but I'd really rather not put my life in Tom's hands."

Deacon nodded. "Yeah, that's probably a good call. Well, there's always Sturges. He seems like a pretty capable guy. And, you know, he's a synth, so he probably would instinctively understand Institute technology."

She froze. "Wait, are you serious? Brian's a synth?"

The spy chuckled. "For once, I'm not lying to you. Sturges was the reason I found you in the first place. The Railroad does try to keep tabs on all the synths we liberate. Some of them end up falling off the radar, but not all of them."

"That's…" Whisper shook her head. "No, that's crazy. I know him. We're almost friends. I'd know if he wasn't human."

Deacon patted her on the helmet. "And now, you understand why what we do is so important. The Railroad believes that synths like Sturges really are just another type of person. They deserve the same rights, the same opportunities, as anyone born in this world. If we learn to not be afraid of synths, if we really give them a chance...I think things would be a lot better for everyone."

Whisper thought for a moment. "But I've heard that the Institute replaces people with synths. That means that somebody has to die so they can replace them, right?"

Deacon frowned. "That's not the fault of the synths. Why should they be punished for crimes committed by the people who made them? That'd be like you going to jail for something your father did. It's not right."

She nodded. "When you put it that way, I think I understand. If we really believe that synths have free will, once they're no longer under Institute control, then do they also have souls?" Whisper sighed. "That's such a hard question. They were manufactured, made by people. But at the same time, knowing Sturges, and Glory...I'd be lying if I said that I didn't believe that they had souls. And if they have souls, then they're human, and need to be protected."

"And that's why the Railroad exists," Deacon said. "Someone has to fight for that. Might as well be us. And, I guess, someone has to build your teleporter. Might as well be Sturges."

Whisper sighed. "You know I adore Sturges, and this has nothing to do with him being a synth, but he's more of a machine guy and less of a science guy. I'd be more willing to risk it with Tom."

"What about…" Deacon started, catching himself. He couldn't believe he was about to suggest this. "What about the Brotherhood? They've got some good engineers, right?"

Whisper nodded. "And knowing how eager Maxson is to destroy the Institute, they would definitely be willing to help. But what about what Dez said? If I take these plans to the Brotherhood, don't you think she'll see that as me choosing sides?"

Deacon sighed. "Yeah, probably. But Whisp, this isn't about politics. It's about your safety. If you're more comfortable working with the Brotherhood's engineers, it's your call. No matter who helps you, the most important thing is getting you into the Institute." He thought for a moment. "Still, if you want to avoid pissing Dez off, we should probably go back to HQ and tell her what you've decided to do. That way, she's still the first one to know about the plan."

"That is all she asked me to do, after all," Whisper added, catching on. "She never said I wasn't allowed to work with the Brotherhood after the fact."

"See, now you're learning to think like an agent!" Deacon said with a smile. "I knew you had it in you!"

Whisper groaned as she trudged on. "I'm not sure that's a compliment, Deacon. No offense, but I try not to lie when I can help it."

"It's not lying!" Deacon replied. "It's using the truth to your advantage. There's a huge difference."

"Then why does it still feel like shit when I do it?" Whisper muttered, so softly that Deacon almost didn't catch the words.

He frowned, puzzling over her question. The way she said it...could bending the truth have something to do with why she was so moody and nervous? The spy had gotten the impression that Whisper was a pretty honest person, even though she was cunning. Lying, even to protect others, wasn't exactly her style. It was the major way in which she and Deacon differed. Her charisma, in a lot of ways, came from her earnestness, whereas his was almost entirely cultivated.

Deacon felt a familiar twinge of guilt worm its way up his spine. He was a horrible influence on her, and he knew it. True, Whisper needed to learn to be more deceptive if she wanted to survive in this cruel world. Wearing her heart on her sleeve may have worked in the Old World, but here, being too sincere would get her killed. At the same time, however, Deacon knew what it was like to head too far down the road of duplicity, to get completely lost in the web of lies and half-truths that made up his life. He didn't want that for Whisper. Hell, he didn't want that for anyone. How could he protect her from all the people who were constantly trying to use her and her growing reputation to their advantage? How could he protect her from himself, knowing that he was doing the same thing?

The walk back into the Commonwealth was long and grueling, and fortunately or unfortunately, it gave him a lot of time to think. Deacon had done the right thing, hadn't he? Saving Whisper, bringing her into the fold, continuing to guide her and mold her into the perfect Railroad agent...those were the right decisions, weren't they? Deacon had never intended to see her again after he'd saved her from Vault 111. Somehow, he'd just always found himself in her path, and over time, he'd realized what she was capable of. It felt like the hand of fate, if he believed in such things, that she would end up fighting by his side. But what if the spy had been wrong? What if he never should have saved her in Concord, or turned the ferals aside in Cambridge? What if all his meddling had hurt her, rather than helped her?

Deacon sighed heavily, trying to clear his mind. In the end, it didn't matter. He'd made the choices he had, and now he had to see his path through to the end. Besides, he reminded himself as he watched Whisper make her way through the radioactive wastes, it wasn't like he minded having her around. Selfish or not, foolish or not, it was worth it to have someone he could rely on again, even if only for a little while.

* * *

When Deacon and Whisper returned to HQ, they barely took a chance to breathe before debriefing Desdemona. After explaining the device as well as she could, Whisper explained her choice to have the Brotherhood of Steel build the Signal Interceptor.

"...and I know that with their technological knowledge, the Brotherhood is our best chance of getting inside the Institute," Whisper pontificated. "I just want to make sure that our plan works, that's all."

"I can't say I'm thrilled with your decision, agent," Desdemona grumbled, "but as you pointed out, I can't stop you. Thank you for at least coming to me with this yourself. And there is one other thing you can do for me to make up for your poor judgement."

"What's that?" Whisper asked.

Desdemona handed her a holotape. "I want you to make contact with an individual within the Institute. We don't know who they are, or what department they're with. But someone in there has been sending freed synths to the surface. We've given them the code name Patriot. I want you to reach out and meet them, if possible. If we could coordinate with them, we might be able to rescue more than just a few synths at a time. Together, we might even be able to save all of them."

Whisper frowned. "So what's the tape for?"

"Tinker Tom wrote a program to communicate with Patriot," Dez explained. "Install it on any terminal, and it'll send that individual a code that only could come from us. Consider it a business card."

"That's...honestly, that's pretty clever," Whisper said with a smile. "Okay, Dez. I'll do my best."

"I hope you do more than just your best, Whisper," the leader of the Railroad replied. "This might be the only chance we get. Good luck."

"Thanks, Dez," Whisper said with a slight smile. "I won't let you down." Whisper took a few moments to wash her face and grab some provisions before seeking Deacon out once more. As she prepared for the next leg of their journey, Deacon extracted his book of Russian poetry from the lounge, curling up on one of the couches. It had been a few months since he'd last read through it, and one poem in particular had been haunting the back of his mind.

It was a short one, only a few lines, really. But something about that poem always seemed to remind him of Whisper. Perhaps it was the same twisted feeling both conjured in his soul. Perhaps it was simply because it had been the last poem he'd read before he'd seen her for the first time. It didn't really matter. In times like these, when he was troubled, it was a comfort, like a warm sweater on a cold winter day. He let his mind wander as he reread the words, again and again, even though he'd memorized the damned thing ages ago.

"I leave for five minutes, and you're already curled up with a book," Whisper mused from the doorway, startling him. Deacon fumbled with the anthology, nearly dropping it in his alarm, but he managed to recover.

"Okay, well, I think it's safe to say you're finally getting sneakier," he managed. Deacon grimaced as he tore the page free from the anthology before replacing it on the shelf. He hated defacing books, but in this case...he wanted to carry the poem with him. He had a feeling that he'd need it more than once before their mission was through, and he didn't want to carry the whole book with him into the field again. The spy folded the page carefully, almost tenderly, before tucking it away into his pocket next to the bullet he carried.

Whisper looked at him curiously. "What's that?"

"Nothing," he lied. "I just wanted to make sure I had paper. You know, in case I need to take notes."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, okay, I guess. But Deacon, I'm not going to be able to bring you with me. You know that, right?"

The spy nodded. "I'm not exactly keen on hanging out with the Brotherhood, so that's fine by me. Tell you what? I'll set up camp in one of the warehouses near the Airport. I'm thinking the one next to the parking garage. If you need me, I'll stay as long as I'm able to."

Whisper's eyes softened, and she smiled warmly at him. "That might be the sweetest thing you've ever done for me, Deeks."

He laughed. "Don't let it go to your head, Whisp. I just want an excuse to set up an observation post over there. I've been meaning to for months."

"Still, thanks," she said. "Well, I guess I'll either see you there, or if everything goes well, I'll see you when I'm back from the Institute."

"Yeah," he replied, trying to fight the growing dread that darkened the corners of his mind. Whisper was going to be fine. The Brotherhood trusted her. They wouldn't let anything happen to her. If nothing else, Danse would protect her. So why was Deacon suddenly so afraid?

* * *

The warehouse Deacon selected to serve as his Brotherhood monitoring station was fairly nondescript, old wood and half-destroyed glass making up most of the structure. It had two stories, which was nice, and offered him lots of crates to hide behind should anyone come patrolling too close. All in all, it was an ideal location.

He picked at the tight orange Brotherhood of Steel flight suit that clung to his body like a giant glove. How the hell could they stand wearing these all the time? He avoided using this particular disguise as much as possible just because he hated the way the suit rode up in the back. He groaned in disgust, trying to ignore the chafing. He only had to stay like this for a few days, just to get the station set up. After that, it was back to HQ, and then...on to find Trail.

Deacon had just managed to get a second mattress placed when he heard the warehouse door open. He cussed under his breath, cowering behind a large metal crate.

"Deeks!" hissed Whisper.

He sighed in relief. "Did anyone see you?" he whispered, motioning her over.

She shook her head. "I was pretty careful. Are you sure it's safe to be this close to the Brotherhood? What if you get caught?"

Deacon smirked. "I've been in tighter spots. Did I ever tell you about the time I spent two weeks in an air vent above a Super Mutant hive? Now that was a tough recon mission. This'll be cake. You might not have noticed this, but your Brotherhood friends aren't known for being particularly observant. Big guns have a way of making you forget the small stuff."

"I guess," she replied, distracted.

The spy frowned, studying her face. "What's wrong, Whisp? Nervous?"

She nodded. "I got approval to build the Interceptor. I guess this is really happening. It's strange, when it was just an idea, I wasn't so worried. But now? I'm actually going through with this. I don't leave for another day or so. Proctor Ingram wants to run a few tests once we've finished the build, but...yeah. It's really going to happen."

"Reality does have a funny way of hitting you, doesn't it?" Deacon replied. "Here. If you want to take your mind off of it, you can help me get some dinner together. It won't be much, since we can't risk a fire, but I did bring some pretty good potato crisps and some snack cakes."

Whisper grinned. "Does this mean we're having our picnic after all?"

"That's your take-away?" Deacon chuckled. "Tell you what. When you come back from the Institute, we'll go on a real picnic. Just you and me. Anywhere in the Commonwealth you want. But that means you have to come back, okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it had better be a damn good picnic, Deacon, if I'm going to defy the odds for it."

"Like I'd give you anything but the finest processed foods, Whisp!" he exclaimed softly. "All the Nuka-Cola you can drink, ice cold. Radstag cold cut sandwiches, fresh melon, anything you want. A Protectron five string quartet playing nearby, a Deathclaw waiter...it'll put your Old World picnics to shame."

Whisper laughed, tearing into a pack of snack cakes. "You pull that off, Deacon, and I'll eat Tinker Tom's hat."

They laughed and chatted quietly until the sun had completely set, leaving the warehouse in near-total darkness. Deacon couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so peaceful. Here he was, hiding out in Brotherhood central. But with Whisper nearby, it seemed like the safest place in the world.

Whisper yawned, stretching out on one of the mattresses. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight?" she asked. "Don't tell Danse, but I have a really hard time sleeping on the _Prydwen_. It's so loud there."

Deacon nodded. "Suit yourself. If you need anything, I'll be up for a while yet."

"Deacon?" she murmured sleepily.

"Yeah?" he replied hoarsely, his voice trapped in his throat.

"Will you...will you hold me?" she asked.

He stared at her, slack-jawed. "What?"

Whisper laughed nervously. "Sorry. I shouldn't...I'm just...I'm scared, and I just need to be held right now. I'm not asking for anything more than that, promise. Is that okay?"

He rolled his eyes before lying down behind her on the stained mattress, pulling her into his arms. "Fine. But I'm not really the hugging type, just so you know."

Whisper curled into a ball, pressing her back tightly against his chest as she nestled against him with a contented sigh. "Thanks, Deeks. You're the best."

Deacon's mind flooded with nostalgia. How long had it been since he'd held someone like this? Had anyone slept in his arms since...since Barbara? He couldn't say for sure. So many things had happened since then, and he'd told so many lies over the years that it was hard to keep even his memories of the past straight. But it felt nice, having her warm body tucked up against him. It was secure, comfortable, and easier to relax than he thought it would be. He had to fight to keep his eyes open, and that was something that rarely happened.

"Hey, Whisper?" he murmured after a long while.

"Mhm?" she muttered.

"You can...I...You can tell me what's bothering you," he said gently. "You know, we spies are awesome listeners. Kind of have to be."

She lay silently for a few moments before replying, her voice barely audible. "I...I'm scared. What if the Signal Interceptor doesn't work? What if I die when I try to use it? Or worse, what if it works, and I find out that Shaun isn't there any more? What if..."

Deacon pulled her closer, resting his chin on the top of her head. The alarm bells in his mind berated him for allowing her so close, but he did his best to ignore them. These were extenuating circumstances. It wasn't like this was going to become routine. Right now, his partner needed him. And that was...actually okay. "Look," he replied, "if you're that worried about it, maybe you could tell them to send someone else, or test the thing first."

"No," she replied. "Ingram says there will only be enough of a window for one chance. And I'm not going to ask anyone else to do it. Not when my son might be in there. I know I'm doing the right thing, Deacon. I'm just scared, that's all."

The spy smiled. Damn, she was brave."Well, if anyone can figure it out, it'd be the Brotherhood," he said. "I might dislike their rhetoric, but they do understand technology pretty well. And besides, your Paladin will be there. You trust him with your life, right?"

Whisper tensed up, and Deacon frowned. So there was something bothering her about Danse. "Do I trust him with my life?" she mused. "I mean, yeah, I do. Of course I do. Danse is...he's reliable."

"But?" Deacon prodded gently.

"But…" Whisper sighed. "He's Brotherhood to the core. There's no room for compromise with him, Deeks. Not on the synth question. Maybe Carrington's right. What will Danse do when he finds out that I work for the Railroad? I can't keep it from him forever. He's a smart man. And I do trust him. But will he be able to trust me?"

"That's what's bothering you?" Deacon sighed. "Listen, Whisp, you're going to have to decide what you want to let go of here. You can't keep dragging yourself in all directions like this."

Whisper whimpered softly. "I know. I know. Everyone keeps saying that I need to pick a side."

"That's not what I'm saying," the spy soothed. "I'm saying that, if you want to keep all these balls in the air, you might need to learn how to be a little more...tactful. I'm not saying that you need to lie to Danse if he asks you, 'Hey, are you in the Railroad?' or something. Just...maybe don't make a thing out of something that doesn't have to be a thing. Does that make sense?"

"That's still hiding the truth from someone I care about," she retorted. "Deacon, I don't know if I can do that. I...I really think I might..." she sighed. "I guess I can try, at least for now."

"For now's all I'm asking," Deacon said. "Just worry about getting your son back. The rest of it doesn't matter until then."

Whisper sighed, relaxing in his arms. "You're right. Thanks, Deacon. You're a really great friend."

He frowned. Whisper had no idea who she was currently snuggled up against. A great friend? Would a great friend be sending her on a suicide mission just to receive more intel on the Institute? Would a great friend be already formulating a plan to use every small bit of information she spilled in confidence on the Brotherhood and the Minutemen to help plan future operations against them? If she only knew how often he had watched her private conversations, how many times he'd violated her trust…

"Don't worry," he murmured into her pale hair. "Just make sure you come back. Drummer Boy would miss you."

Whisper snorted. "Just Drummer?"

Deacon chuckled. "Well, I mean, I'd probably miss you too. It's a lot harder for me to do my job without a big, beautiful distraction kicking ass across the Commonwealth to draw prying eyes away. Nick was a delight to work with, don't get me wrong, but he wasn't you."

"Maybe you just need to get better disguises," she teased.

"Maybe you need to stop being so hurtful and go to sleep," he retorted, pulling his arms free as he jokingly prepared to stand back up.

Whisper whimpered again, clinging to his hands. "Don't go, Deacon. Please."

Deacon sighed, wrapping himself around his partner's curled form once more. "Sure, Whisp. I'll stay as long as you need."

She nodded, slowly relaxing in his arms, her breathing slow and even. Deacon watched over her for a long while, the words of his poem flowing like fresh ink through his mind. "The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished…" he murmured as sleep took him at last as, cool and safe as the darkness he called home.


	16. The Unspoken Words

**16\. The Unspoken Words**

_Myra leaves for the Institute, and Danse has to deal with the consequences of his growing feelings for her, as well as some new revelations._

* * *

Senior Paladin Danse, for all his love of routine and order, was not the world's most patient man when there was a mission on the line. He stood on the _Prydwen _'s foredeck, tapping his fingers anxiously against the safety railing as he looked out over the remains of Boston Airport. The Brotherhood of Steel had worked tirelessly since their arrival in the Commonwealth to transform the remaining terminal and outbuildings into a secure base worthy of their technological might. While the hollowed carcasses of several large passenger jets remained, much of the debris surrounding the terminal had been cleared away, re-purposed into the construction of concrete and steel fortifications. The main terminal had only two entrances through the solidly-built walls, and both were heavily guarded by Knights in power armor, miniguns at the ready. It was as secure as anything could be in the Commonwealth.

Sometimes, Danse wondered what it was like to fly in one of the large passenger jets before the War. From the promotional images he'd seen in various magazines over the years, it seemed like a luxurious adventure. Spacious and enclosed cabins, pretty girls in flattering uniforms...they even served meals on flights before the War, according to the ads. When Myra came back, he'd have to ask her if she'd ever flown, if that was what it was really like.

Danse loved flying almost as much as he'd loved power armor. When he'd joined the Brotherhood, he'd honestly had a hard time choosing what career path to take. Ultimately, he was too tall to be a Lancer, and once he'd become a Knight, he'd never looked back. But any chance he had to be up in the clear blue sky, to feel the wind on his face, he relished. Being a Paladin in a way, he supposed, had allowed him to have the best of both scenarios. He was able to use a vertibird any time he needed to deploy somewhere, and he got to wear power armor. No Lancer was ever issued a set of the precious armor.

The Paladin frowned as his mind drifted to Myra once more. She had been out of contact for more than a week, which as far as he was concerned was more than enough time to head into to the Glowing Sea and return to the Airport. Even if she was taking her time coming back, Myra should have at least reported in when she returned to the Commonwealth. Had something happened? What if she was injured, or worse, dead?

Danse gripped the safety railing in his armored hands tightly enough to dent the metal. Proctor Ingram would be furious, of course, but right now, he wasn't particularly concerned with the engineer's reaction to the damage. His mind churned, filled with scenarios of what might have befallen Myra. He should have gone with her. How many times had this happened now, where they were parted only to have something terrible befall her? Danse could kick himself for deciding to return to base without her.

Still, Myra hadn't seemed all that interested in having him along. When she'd asked if he was ready for the next phase of her plan, her tone was guarded, almost dismissive. Danse couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, he'd messed up, that he'd driven her away. He wasn't sure what he'd done, exactly, but he felt guilty nonetheless. He should have tried to find out, tried to make things right. Instead, he'd returned to the Airport, and she was out there somewhere, possibly alone, but likely with Deacon.

The Paladin grimaced as he thought about Myra's shady friend. There was something deeply off-putting about Deacon. Danse had felt it the minute he set eyes on the man. Deacon wasn't just hiding something. He seemed to be hiding everything. It was a massive understatement to say that Danse didn't trust him. And he'd left Myra in the man's care. How could Danse have been so stupid? What if Deacon hurt her?

Danse shook his head. No, he had a hard time believing that Deacon would intentionally cause Myra harm. He'd seen the way the man looked at her when he thought no one else was watching. There was a bittersweet admiration in Deacon's eyes when he looked at Myra, and though that look triggered alarm bells in Danse's head for other reasons, it wasn't the face of a man who would wish her ill. The Paladin had to believe that Deacon would do everything he could to keep Myra safe.

Perhaps most importantly, Danse had to remember that Myra was more than capable of protecting herself. She was a good soldier. Her instincts were right on target, even if she was still a little too trusting. Danse had taught her everything he knew, and he had to trust that she would use the lessons he'd taught her, no matter the circumstances.

The radio in his armor crackled to life, and Danse sighed in relief as Myra's voice garbled through the static.

"We...the plans...I'll...a few hours," she said.

"Please repeat, Larimer," Danse replied. "There's some sort of interference with your signal."

"...strange...you soon," Myra continued. There was a low whine as the signal cut out, and Danse frowned. He couldn't be certain, but it did seem like her radio was being almost purposefully jammed. Still, he tried not to worry about the implications. Myra was alive, and if he understood her message, she was going to be home soon. That was good enough news for the time being.

Danse returned to the _Prydwen _'s interior, heading for Maxson's quarters. The Elder would want to know Myra's status. After all, the next stage of the Brotherhood's mission hinged on her being able to get inside the Institute. He stopped just outside Arthur's door, rapping as gently as he could on the metal hatch.

"Come in," Maxson's voice responded, low and muffled by the bulkhead.

The Paladin eased the door open, stepping inside. Arthur Maxson sat next to his desk, typing away furiously on his computer. "This had better be important," he warned in a low growl.

"I've just received a radio transmission from Knight Larimer, sir," Danse responded professionally. "The signal was weak, but from what I could understand, she's on her way to the Airport."

Maxson turned in his chair to face Danse, his face relaxing slightly. "That is excellent news, Danse. Hopefully she's bringing us something useful."

The Paladin nodded. "From what I heard, it seems she did manage to acquire some schematics from Dr. Virgil. If we're fortunate, she may have just found us our path into the Institute."

Maxson frowned. "That is if we can trust this Virgil. You said that it was a Super Mutant? I'm surprised you didn't shoot it on sight, Danse."

"Believe me, Arthur, I wanted to," Danse replied. "But as Knight Larimer pointed out, there was a greater tactical advantage to keeping it alive for now. I will be more than willing to go back and finish the job if it becomes necessary."

"I suppose that's all I can ask," Maxson replied. "But, Danse, is something else bothering you? I'm not critiquing your performance," he added hastily, "but you've seemed...off since you returned to the _Prydwen _."

Danse sighed. "My headaches have returned," he muttered. "They aren't as debilitating as they have been. The medicine Cade gave me has helped substantially. However, in the last week, I have noticed a resurgence in the number of attacks I've suffered."

Maxson's eyes narrowed. "Danse, you should have informed me of your condition immediately! Have you been to see Cade?"

The Paladin nodded. "He's unsure of the cause, or why the medication isn't as effective as it had been. Medically, he says that I'm the peak of health, and I have been getting adequate levels of sleep due to the sleeping pills. Unless Cade discovers something new about my condition, he has no real solutions except to continue my routine and try not to overtax myself, whatever that means."

"If I have to pull you from active duty, Danse, I will," the Elder replied. "I would prefer it if you were able to continue your mission, but your health has to come first."

"That is the other reason I hesitated to bring the headaches to your attention, sir," Danse muttered. "The pain is...significant, but not enough to affect my performance."

"For your sake, Danse," Maxson continued, "I hope that you're telling me the truth. I would hate for any of my soldiers to suffer unduly simply because they were too stubborn to rest."

"Have you ever known me to be dishonest, Arthur?" Danse asked, trying not to be offended by the implication.

"No," Maxson replied. "You're pretty much the worst liar I've ever met. All the same, please try not to get into the habit. I can always tell when you're hiding something from me, Danse. You get that shifty look in your eyes. So are you going to tell me what is really bothering you, or do I have to interrogate you more formally?"

Danse sighed. They really had known each other for far too long. "You're absolutely right," he said. "Something else is worrying me. But I don't know exactly what to do about it, yet. If you don't mind giving me more time, Arthur, I promise I'll come to you when I'm ready."

The Elder nodded, his steely eyes fixed on Danse's. The Paladin froze under Maxson's analytical gaze as the younger man studied him carefully. Finally, Maxson sighed, shaking his head as he broke eye contact. "You think too much sometimes," he muttered. "Go get some rest, Danse. Once Larimer returns, I have a feeling that you're going to be too busy for anything else."

"Thank you, sir," Danse replied, feeling a little like he'd just been vivisected. Maxson's gaze often had that effect on people. It was one of the reasons why the young Elder was such a powerful force to be reckoned with. He'd been the same way when he was a child, intelligent and calculating, able to understand most people he met with a glance. In the decade they'd known each other, Danse had yet to adjust to being in Arthur's sights. It was eerily disconcerting.

While he waited for Myra's arrival, Danse decided to head to the mess hall and grab a quick bite to eat. The food served on the _Prydwen _wasn't the most appetizing, but it did fulfill all the daily requirements that Cade had put in place for a healthy diet. Danse missed Myra's cooking. While the mess offered bland but filling meals, Myra prepared robust, flavorful fare. There was a warm, comforting quality to her cooking that the Paladin found quite soothing. If he'd have known how hard it would be to adjust back to Steward Gardener's specialty - grey meat over sprouted razorgrain - Danse would never have tried Myra's food.

The Paladin carried his plate to the Officer's Mess. It had been an adjustment, dining in the small, well-decorated lounge. As a junior officer, he'd been given the option to eat where he wished, and Danse was the sort of officer who preferred to eat with his squad. Now that he was officially a Senior Paladin, he no longer had such a luxury. As the most senior of the Brotherhood's ground officers, he had the mandatory privilege of dining in the lounge, which typically meant that he ended up eating alone.

Danse picked idly at his food as his mind wandered. The room was as silent as any place on the airship ever truly was, and that made it tough for him to rein his thoughts in. He found himself thinking about his old squad. How were Rhys and Haylen holding up, now that they were effectively in command of the Cambridge Police Station? It was strange. When Danse had first left them behind to follow Myra on her quest, he'd been so worried for the remnant of Recon Squad Gladius. Now that he'd been assigned officially as Myra's sponsor, he'd barely had a chance to visit them. Scribe Haylen, at least, checked in with him fairly regularly, typically to ask how the Paladin's health was. Rhys was often too busy to contribute to Haylen's radio calls, but he seemed to be taking to command like a bloatfly to a swamp, even if his post had yet to garner him the promotion he longed for.

There was a slight miasma of guilt that clung to the corners of Danse's mind when he thought of Rhys and Haylen. Had he abandoned them, when he and Myra had been reassigned to the _Prydwen _? Intellectually, he knew that he was merely following orders. But if Danse hadn't been so eager to bring Myra into the fold, he might have still been at the Police Station, working alongside the squad he held an almost paternal affection for. Did they begrudge him his new assignment? Did they blame Myra for it?

Rhys had never been fond of Myra. Danse knew that. But Haylen had warmed to the former vault-dweller almost immediately. The Paladin had a hard time seeing Haylen holding much of a grudge against anyone. She was an incredibly sweet person, almost too gentle for the Brotherhood. Perhaps that was why Haylen was the subordinate Danse worried about the most.

Danse sighed, shoveling his lukewarm, congealing lunch into his mouth. Once Myra had found her son and his promise to her was fulfilled, he'd go back to the Police Station for a visit. It had been too long since he'd had a chance to check in. But it did him little good to think about that now.

"Senior Paladin Danse," Captain Kells' voice commanded over the ship's intercom, "report to the Command Deck immediately."

Danse groaned, tipping his plate into a nearby bussing bin. Flavorless though it was, he would have at least liked to have finished his meal. Though perhaps if he'd spent more time eating and less time thinking, he wouldn't have found himself in this predicament. He made his way downstairs to the deck as quickly as he could.

There, sitting on one of the couches, was Myra. She had her back to him, chatting animatedly with Maxson, but he'd recognize her snowy hair anywhere. "...so, that's when I realized that I was almost out of RadAway," she explained, gesticulating.

"You realize that you would not have needed so much medication if you'd worn your power armor," Maxson replied.

"I know," Myra shot back, "but I'm really not comfortable wearing power armor all the time. I'm not Danse. Honestly, I think he'd sleep in his armor if no one stopped him."

Maxson's eyes shone with amusement. "I'm fairly certain he's attempted it at least once, actually."

"I'm well aware that my bed was not designed to handle that much weight," Danse said sternly.

Myra's shoulders tensed in shock at the sound of his voice. She turned to look at him with an embarrassed smile. "There you are, Danse! I was just telling Elder Maxson about my trip."

The Paladin sighed. "And having a laugh at my expense. Typical."

Myra grinned. "I missed you too."

Maxson cleared his throat. "Once Paladin Danse arrived, Knight, you were going to tell us what you learned."

"Oh, yeah," Myra replied, pulling a few sheets of crayon-covered paper from her pack. "So, according to Dr. Virgil, we just need to build this machine, called a Signal Interceptor, and tune the receiver or something to the classical music station. That's what the Institute uses to conceal their relay transmissions, though I don't really get how. Virgil explained it, but that didn't help me understand it any better."

Maxson looked over the drawings, frowning. "This looks complicated, even for us. But if anyone can help you, Larimer, it'll be Proctor Ingram. I'll ask her to put her other projects on hold for now. Well done."

"Thank you, sir," Myra said, smiling. "I really hope this works."

"As do I," Maxson responded. "If this machine can do what you say it can, we may have finally found a chink in the Institute's armor. Together, we will rescue your son, and ultimately free the Commonwealth of this great evil. I couldn't be prouder of you, Knight." He turned to Danse. "Paladin, please escort Knight Larimer to the Airport. I'll ask Ingram to meet you both there."

"Affirmative!" Danse replied, saluting the Elder. Myra followed suit, and Maxson returned the gesture before leaving the room. Once he was gone, Danse sighed, frowning down at Myra. "Larimer, did you determine what was affecting your radio?"

She shook her head. "I don't understand it, Danse. I could hear you just fine. Is that why you didn't respond before?"

The Paladin's frown deepened. "Before?"

Myra nodded. "A few days ago, when I left the Glowing Sea, I tried calling you, but you didn't respond. I thought maybe my radio was damaged by all the radiation, but Deacon checked it for me and said it was fine."

So she had taken Deacon with her. Danse felt a sick weight in his stomach. "May I take a look at it?" he asked.

"Be my guest," Myra replied, unbuckling her Pip-Boy and handing it to him.

Danse turned the divide over in his hands, looking for any sign that the radio had been tampered with. Everything seemed to be in working condition. The only damage was a bit of wear-and-tear, nothing abnormal as far as the Paladin could see. Perhaps it was just a fluke, some sort of atmospheric influence. Danse wasn't quite convinced. All the same, he handed the Pip-Boy back to Myra. "Seems to be in perfectly serviceable condition," he offered. "All the same, perhaps you should have Ingram take a look at it while we're with her.

Myra nodded distractedly as she re-buckled the device around her wrist. "I'll do that. The last thing I want to do is to be unable to contact you."

"Then don't go anywhere without me!" Danse exclaimed before his mind had a chance to catch up to his mouth.

Myra stared at him incredulously. "You're the one who wanted to stay behind this time, Danse."

"Yes, but only because you seemed like you wanted me to leave," he muttered.

"What?" Myra replied. "That's not what happened at all! Of course I wanted you to stay with me! You're my friend!"

Danse scowled. "Then why do I get the impression that you're keeping secrets from me?" he bellowed. "What are you hiding?"

Myra's eyes widened in shock, and he could see the hurt and anger boiling beneath the emerald surface. She stared at him for a long moment, barely blinking, just completely silent.

Danse paled. "Larimer, I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"I'm going to go see Proctor Ingram," Myra finally said, her voice cracking slightly. "I...I need to think. Don't follow me. I don't care what Maxson said." She fled from the Command Deck, from him, leaving the Paladin alone with the pain she left behind.

Danse stood, stunned, his eyes fixed on her passing long after she'd disappeared. He wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling, but it was unpleasant. The Paladin hadn't meant to raise his voice. He hadn't meant to hurt Myra. But somehow, he'd still managed to screw things up, and this time, he wasn't certain how to make it better.

* * *

Danse didn't see Myra again until the next evening, when he was called down to the Airport to watch Ingram power up the Signal Interceptor. The risk of Institute discovery prevented the Brotherhood from testing the device, and there was only enough power to send one person anyway. Myra would be going in alone, using a device no one had ever built before. Danse would be lying if he said that he wasn't terrified for her.

The Interceptor itself was huge, a tower of steel and wires surrounding a large platform. Attached to the device was a control panel, which Ingram already stood at, her eyes scanning the screen. Myra stood next to one of the tower's pillars, carefully adjusting a bolt with an adjustable wrench.

When the Paladin approached her, Myra looked up at him with a sad smile. "Hey, Danse. I wasn't actually sure if you were going to see me off or not." She sighed heavily, her eyes bright with tears. "Look, I'm sorry for yesterday. I shouldn't have stormed off like that. It was incredibly disrespectful."

"On the contrary," Danse replied, "I was out of line, Larimer. I shouldn't have raised my voice. I've just been...concerned by some of your recent behavior. I'm worried about you."

Myra flashed him a sad, nervous smile. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm pretty tough."

The Paladin nodded. "All the same, I do."

Myra's eyes met his, warm and tender as they searched his face for more information. Danse found himself unable to look away, his breath catching in his throat as she smiled at him. They looked at each other for a long time, neither saying a word. For once, Danse felt that words weren't needed. For the first time in his life, the Paladin felt completely seen, completely understood. It was overwhelming.

"Stand clear!" Proctor Ingram called, interrupting the moment. "Let's fire this up and see what happens!"

"Well, I guess it's time," Myra said nervously as she backed away from the Signal Interceptor. The massive machine came to life like a raging beast. It hissed and surged with power, great showers of sparks and streams of steam emanating from the vibrating framework.

"Proctor Ingram," Danse said, concerned, "are you certain that this machine is safe?"

The Proctor sighed. "Well, I can't guarantee anything, Paladin. There's a huge difference between keeping that hunk of junk we call home in the air and adapting Institute technology. The best I can say is that no one else could have built a safer version of this machine."

Danse frowned as he eyed the rickety framework, his gut twisting with anxiety. He hated the feeling. Anxiety wasn't exactly something he'd struggled with before. He wasn't afraid for his own life, and though he worried about those under his command, he was able to comfort himself by knowing that they all knew the risks, that they were soldiers dedicated to their mission and the ideals that the Brotherhood had taught them. There was no reason to fear death if one died with honor.

But this was different. He hated the idea of Myra using the Signal Interceptor. The machine reeked of Institute technology, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was a horrible trap. Were they sending Myra to her death? Or to something somehow even worse?

Arthur strode up to them, his steel blue eyes bright with determination and awe. "A fantastic job as always, Ingram," the Elder said.

"Thank you sir," the engineer replied with a slight smile. "Tell me that again when the damn thing works."

Maxson turned his attention to Myra. "Knight Larimer, are you prepared for your mission?"

Myra nodded. "I think so, sir," she replied, "as ready as anyone could be, stepping into the unknown."

"Your bravery is admirable, Knight," Maxson continued. "There's one more thing, before you go."

"Of course, Elder," she replied. "What do you need?"

"Once you reach the Institute, we'll likely lose contact with you, so please do your best to remember what I'm about to tell you," the Elder commanded. "About ten years ago, the Brotherhood gained the services of a few prominent civilian scientists to assist us in...various projects. One of these scientists, Dr. Madison Li, had a falling out with us a few years ago, and left the Capital Wasteland. We have reason to believe that she's now working for the Institute."

Myra frowned. "Do you want me to eliminate her?"

Arthur's eyes widened in shock. "Of course not, Knight! We aren't monsters. No, I would like you to persuade her to return to the Brotherhood. We have a project that requires her expertise. Dr. Li is an incredibly gifted individual, and a valuable asset."

"So why did you let her leave?" Myra asked.

Maxson sighed. "If I'd been in charge, I wouldn't have. Unfortunately, my predecessors weren't particularly known for their forethought, and had no intention of keeping anyone within the Brotherhood's ranks who wanted to leave." His eyes darkened. "Perhaps if they'd been a little more tactically-minded, a lot of things would have been different. But it is my task to make sure that such...oversights do not occur again."

Myra nodded. "I understand. So I'll make contact with Dr. Li and convince her to come back with me. Is there anything else?"

"Now that you mention it," Proctor Ingram chipped in, "here." She tossed Myra a holotape. "This program will scan the Institute's computer network and automatically download information from it. I'm not sure what we'll be able to get before the system locks you out, but whatever you bring back could be very useful in understanding our enemy and their technology. Just plug it in to any terminal, and give it a few minutes. Bring it back when you come home."

"I'll do my best," Myra replied. "I'm still not certain how much time I'll have inside. But if they don't shoot me on sight, you've got a deal."

Ingram smiled. "That's all I can ask, Larimer. So, are you ready to try something no one's ever done before?"

Myra laughed. "When you put it like that, how can I say no?" She saluted Elder Maxson, their eyes meeting for a few significant moments before Maxson looked away with a troubled expression. Then, she turned to the Paladin. "Hey, Danse?" she asked softly.

"What is it, Larimer?" he replied gently as she looked up at him.

"If anything...If I don't make it back…" Myra trailed off with a sigh. "Aw, screw it. Take care of yourself, sir," she finished with a grin that almost disguised the uncertainty in her eyes.

Danse felt sick as he watched her climb up onto the platform. He desperately thought of something to tell her, to give her the courage to see this mission through. What could he say? Should he beg her to be careful, or not to go at all?

It killed him that she was going into one of the most dangerous places in the Commonwealth without backup. He should be going with her, fighting by her side as he always did, protecting her from the unsettling unknowns that waited beyond the relay. But they could only send one person, and it had to be her.

The Paladin glanced over at Maxson, trying his best to suppress his irritation at the younger man's orders. Why had Arthur condoned this mission, knowing how important Myra was to Danse? How could the Elder send her where Danse could not follow? It was one of the cruelest things his friend had ever done to him, and though he knew it served the greater good, part of him was furious with the Elder for his part in this ridiculous operation.

What would happen if the Institute knew she was coming? Even if the Interceptor worked and didn't vaporize her immediately, Institute synths might gun her down before she could even blink. The whole operation was suicide.

Danse stared into Myra's eyes, searching for that haunted desire for the void that he'd seen in Fort Hagen. But all that greeted him was the fierce determination of a soldier ready to do her duty, of a mother willing to risk everything for her child. Myra wasn't marching to her death, not this time. She was fighting for the most sacred thing left in the world. And perhaps that would be enough to save her life.

"Don't get killed, soldier," he finally managed, hoping that she understood the true weight of that command.

"I know," Myra replied with a determined smile that almost masked the sadness behind it. "I know. The paperwork. I'll try my best."

"I've got the signal!" Ingram shouted from the command console as the device came to life, shaking so hard that Danse was certain that the thing would fall apart around Myra. "If you're going to go, it's got to be now."

"I'm ready!" Myra replied. She looked back at Danse, smiling grimly at him. "Danse, when I get back, I need to tell you-"

With that, there was a bright, blinding flash of blue light, followed by a violent and ear-splitting explosion that sent the three Brotherhood soldiers staggering. Danse blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his vision.

"Proctor!" Maxson shouted, clutching his ears, "Was that supposed to happen?"

"I don't know!" Ingram yelled. "The Interceptor's fried! I guess we just have to hope she made it."

Danse muffled a cry of alarm as he looked back at the platform where Myra had been standing just moments before. The framework was blackened and twisted, barely recognizable as the device Ingram had created. The platform itself had been mostly reduced to ash, still flickering with residual electricity. Of Myra, there was no sign. Either the Signal Interceptor had worked and she was already inside the Institute, or what remained of her was lost among the ashes.

"We should return to the _Prydwen _," Arthur said to him gently but firmly. "There's nothing we can do now but wait."

Danse nodded, his vision blurring once more as he fought to hold back tears. That was a response he hadn't anticipated. In spite of everything he'd been through, Danse wasn't prone to crying very often. But faced with the possibility of Myra's death, there was little else he could do. Fear trembled within him, a delicate, flighty thing. More than anything, however, he just felt...lost.

The Paladin glanced up at the fiery sunset, at the magnificent bow of the _Prydwen _silhouetted against the sky. Was it just him, or did everything seem muted somehow, like the colors of the world had lost their lustre? Perhaps the explosion had damaged his eyes. He'd have to check in with Cade about that.

As he and Arthur stood inside the vertibird back to the airship, Danse slipped his hand inside the torso of his power armor, extracting a small, worn card. _Our Lady of Victory _. The card Myra had given him. Danse stared at the gentle face of the woman depicted on the timeworn paper. Her eyes were downcast, focused on the infant she held in her arms. There was a serene and mysterious expression on her face, like the woman knew a comforting secret. The Paladin sighed as he studied her. There was something...Myra-like about the woman, though they could not have looked more different. He felt the same peace when looking at her. Was it because Myra had given him the card in the first place, or was it something deeper?

Danse sighed, tucking the card back into his armor. If nothing else, it was a comforting reminder of the esteem Myra had for him, a consideration that, deep in his soul, he hoped was something more. Perhaps now, he would never get the chance to know. But one thing was certain. If Myra was alive, if she returned to him...he wasn't about to waste the chance to find out.

* * *

The next morning, Danse knocked nervously on Elder Maxson's door, a sheet of paper clenched in his hand. _B64-14: Request for Subordinate Transfer _was written across the top in bold letters. He'd stayed up all night trying to decide if he'd fill the form out or not. Now that he was here, ready to hand the paperwork over, he really hoped he was doing the right thing.

"Come in," Maxson called from inside. Danse sighed, easing the door open and crossing into the room.

Arthur sat in his desk chair, back to his monitor as he watched the Paladin enter with interest in his steely eyes. "Ah! Danse. I was wondering when you'd be by. I think I'll have to move my bed to the other side of the room if you make a habit of pacing all night."

"I hope I didn't disturb your sleep too much, Arthur," the Paladin replied.

"It wasn't just you, Danse. I was awake for most of the night myself, thinking about our next move. I hate just waiting around for something to happen. The second Knight Larimer is back from her mission, we need to be ready to move on whatever information she manages to acquire."

Danse nodded. "Actually, Elder, I was hoping to talk to you about Larimer. I've been thinking, and perhaps you're right. Maybe she would be better suited to another sponsor. I took the liberty of beginning the paperwork." He handed the completed form to his old friend.

Maxson took one look at the form before tossing it aside."Request denied," he replied coolly.

Danse felt his skin crawl. How could this be? The last time a transfer had been mentioned, Arthur had been all for it, had practically pushed Danse into it. What had changed? "May I ask why, sir? Just a few months ago, you said that-"

"I know what I said, Danse," Maxson interrupted brusquely. "But circumstances have changed. If Knight Larimer has indeed been successful in her infiltration of the Institute, her role in our plans just became critically important. We don't have time to reassign her and have her build up that level of trust with someone else. And I don't intend to compromise our primary mission just because you've decided to finally show some initiative."

"So what do you expect me to do, Arthur?" Danse said a bit more forcefully than he intended.

"I expect you to do your damn job, Paladin," Maxson growled impatiently. "You will work with Knight Larimer. You will get us inside the Institute. And you will help us secure our victory. That is an order."

Danse sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Danse?" Arthur asked, his eyes meeting the Paladin's.

"Yes, sir?" Danse replied, a nervous tingle in his stomach.

"Be careful," Maxson continued, his eyes softer than they usually were. "I'd hate to see you lose your focus, after so long. We may not be as strict as the military in the Old World, but you know as well as I do how dangerous it is to be too close to your soldiers. If it comes down to Larimer's life or your mission, I have to know you'll make the right call."

"How can you say that?" Danse replied angrily. "Damn it, Arthur, you've known me for more than a decade. When in that time have I ever hesitated from doing my duty, no matter the personal cost?"

Maxson sighed. "Never. But Danse, in all that time, I've also never seen you put your reputation on the line for someone like this. I've never seen you question my orders. I know Larimer is special to you. I hope you realize that she is to me as well, if not in quite the same way. If anything happened to either of you…" The Elder's brow furrowed. "That's why you have to be careful. I can't protect you forever, Danse. Not even if I agree with you. I don't have the luxury of bending the rules. You know the position I'm in. And if there was another method we could use to accomplish our mission with even remotely the same odds of success, I would employ it in a heartbeat. But there isn't. I'm sorry, but we all have to make sacrifices, Danse."

"I'm aware of that, sir," the Paladin replied solemnly. "I just wasn't aware that Larimer was meant to be one of those sacrifices."

"That's quite enough, Danse," Arthur warned. "Knight Larimer knew the risks before she accepted this assignment, and she freely chose to use the Signal Interceptor. I didn't order her to, nor would I have. I would have thought that you knew me better than that, old friend."

Danse sighed. "I apologize for speaking out of turn. I'm just...I suppose I'm anxious, that's all."

The corners of Maxson's lips upturned slightly in amusement. "I would be too, I suppose, given the circumstances. But you know how pigheaded Larimer is. She might even be as stubborn as you. I believe she'll return to us, Danse, if that's her intention. And for your sake in particular, I certainly hope it is."

Danse nodded. "As long as Larimer's alive, Arthur, I believe you're right. I can't imagine anything that would cause her to shirk her duty. Even though she has an unpleasant habit of going off on her own, Knight Larimer is a dedicated soldier. I trust her with my life."

"Which is exactly why I intend to keep you together as a team," Arthur continued. "As long as you do your part, Danse, and help her to accept her responsibilities to the Brotherhood, I will do everything in my power to keep her by your side."

"Thank you," Danse murmured. "I'll leave you be, sir. I apologize again for my outburst."

Maxson nodded. "It's quite alright, Danse. Just…" The Elder sighed. "If you need to talk, or if she doesn't return...I'm still your friend. You can always come to me. I hope you don't forget that."

"How could I?" Danse replied with a gentle smile. "You remind me often enough." He picked the discarded transfer form off of the Elder's desk before leaving the room. His heart was unexpectedly heavy, his thoughts filled with images of Myra in various states of death and distress. The Paladin shook his head, plodding to the armor bay. He'd drop off his armor and then head to the gym for a few hours. Anything to take his mind off of the possibility that he'd never see Myra again.

* * *

Days became weeks, and still, there was no word from Myra or any of the Brotherhood's intelligence network. She was either still in the Institute, or…

Danse shook his head, banishing the thought for the upteenth time as he furiously scrubbed at his power armor's elbow joints. Myra was alive. She had to be alive. The Paladin refused to accept any other possibility. Instead, he tried to think about what she had been trying to say to him before the explosion. Myra needed to tell him something. But what? What was so difficult for her to say that it had to wait until she returned from the Institute?

The Paladin's head swam with possibilities, both pleasant and unpleasant. Myra, in many ways, was still a mystery to him. Every time he'd begun to understand her, he'd learned something new about her. Not that he minded. He would happily spend the rest of his life unraveling Myra Larimer if he was able to. She fascinated Danse in a way that no one really had before. There was something so magnetic about her that he'd been drawn to her from the start, even before he'd seen her better qualities. Danse still couldn't quite explain why he was so invested in Myra. So many things about her should have irritated him. But her impulsiveness, her stubbornness, her blatant disregard for order...those pet peeves of his were somehow almost endearing when they manifested in her.

So what was so important that she'd wanted to have a dedicated conversation about it? Was she wanting to share another story about her past? Danse wasn't convinced. She'd always been forthcoming about that information before, and somehow, a story about the Old World didn't seem urgent enough to merit special consideration. It had to be something else, something important. Either she wanted to talk to him about how close they'd become, for better or worse, or…

Danse had suspected for a few months now that Myra had been keeping something from him, something big. He wasn't the best when it came to reading other people, not usually. But he knew Myra better than he knew almost anyone. Danse could tell when something was off with her. And over the last few months, something had definitely changed in her.

He thought back to his conversation with Arthur in Sanctuary, about Myra's association with Deacon. Danse freely admitted that there was something about the other man that got under his skin. It wasn't just that he took too many liberties with Myra. All of her friends did that, unfortunately, and while their playful flirting got the Paladin's hackles up, he recognized that his response was a little ridiculous. After all, there was no reason why Myra shouldn't receive affection from others. She wasn't in a committed relationship with anyone at the moment, and it wasn't entirely his business what she did, even though an ever-growing part of him wanted it to be. No, there was something else, something deeper than that. He didn't trust Deacon, and the more time Myra spent with the man, the more Danse worried that he'd stop trusting her as well.

Danse sighed heavily, wiping his greasy hands on the Brotherhood fatigues he wore. He needed more information, and even though he wasn't overly fond of the man, he knew exactly who could help him.

Proctor Quinlan looked up with keen interest as Danse walked into his office. "Well, now," the man crooned in his soft accent, "Senior Paladin Danse. This is a rare occasion. What brings you to my little corner of the world?"

"I was wondering if I could see your file on a certain individual in the Commonwealth," Danse replied.

Quinlan nodded. "For a member of the senior staff, almost nothing is off-limits. Whom, may I ask, are you inquiring about?"

"His name's Deacon," the Paladin said. "Elder Maxson mentioned that you knew of him."

Quinlan's pale eyes shone with curiosity as he rummaged in one of his filing cabinets. "And what makes you so interested in a man like him, I wonder?" the Proctor murmured.

"He's...something of an acquaintance of mine," Danse replied.

"Of yours, or of that pretty little Knight you're sponsoring?" Quinlan crooned. "From what I've observed, Larimer's associated with all sorts of shady individuals. Did you know that she regularly visits a certain mayor of Goodneighbor, for instance?"

Danse frowned. "You're spying on her," he growled.

Quinlan chuckled, "Oh, Danse, don't take it personally. I spy on everyone. You should see your file. It's quite fascinating, really." The older man continued searching through his files, long, spindly fingers gently pushing folders aside like a spider wrapping up a particularly tasty fly.

Danse shuddered. Quinlan always disconcerted him. The man was too calculating, too cunning. There was nothing but guile in him, and no one was safe from the man's machinations, not even Elder Maxson. If the Proctor wasn't so well-loved by the Elder Council, Danse suspected that Arthur would have found a way to dispose of him by now.

"Ah! Here it is!" Quinlan exclaimed, extracting a fat dossier from his cabinet and offering it to Paladin Danse. "Your acquaintance is quite a nuisance, it seems," he continued. "Our records of him date back more than a decade, though in some cases, he seems to be almost a different man entirely. To this day, we're not sure if he's one man who's had a lot of facial surgery, or a series of men with the same codename."

"Deacon is a codename?" Danse asked, flipping the dossier open. There, at the very top, was a charcoal drawing of a man in sunglasses, his familiar, cheeky smile almost coming to life on the page. Underneath, Quinlan had listed quite a few dates, each one with a number next to it referring to a particular incident file.

"Yes," the Proctor replied. "It seems the Railroad, those damned thorns in our side, are quite fond of their codenames."

"The Railroad?" Danse's eyes widened in shock. "What is Larimer doing with a Railroad agent?"

"There are several possibilities," Quinan said coolly. "Perhaps she is unaware of his identity. Or, more likely, your Knight is also a member of their organization. She wouldn't be the first Brotherhood recruit to have found her way into their circle, nor is she likely to be the last." The Proctor sighed. "Imbeciles, the lot of them. Can you believe that they actually think that synths are people? The Commonwealth will be better off once we crush the lot of them, I think."

Danse frowned. He'd had several run-ins with the Railroad back in the Capital Wasteland, and none of them had ended well for the secretive organization. "The Railroad's hardly a threat to us, are they?" he asked. "From my experience, they're little more than a nuisance."

"Even a nuisance can get lucky," Quinlan replied. "As you know, Paladin, the Railroad and the Brotherhood are quite ideologically opposed. That alone makes them far more dangerous than any aggressors. Bullets, you can protect yourself from. Ideas?" the older man smiled cryptically, tapping the side of his nose. "Ideas are the real threat, aren't they? Impossible to kill, difficult to defend against...Give a man something to believe in with his whole being, and not even death will hold him back."

Danse pondered this as he continued to look over Deacon's file. He noticed several known associates, along with known information about each of them.

_Desdemona. Female. Leader._

_Drummer Boy. Male. Courier._

_Carrington. Male. Doctor._

The Paladin froze as he read the third line. Dr. Carrington. He was the man that Myra had brought to the Castle, the one who had treated Danse's injuries. If he was also a member of the Railroad...Danse's heart sank as the implication set in. One Railroad associate could be written off as a coincidence. But Myra was familiar with two Railroad agents, at least. It was becoming more and more likely that she was, in fact, a spy. He choked back the bile that rose in his throat, continuing to read down the list.

_Glory. Synth. Agent._

_Tommy Whispers. Male. Agent_

_Trailblazer. Female. Intelligence._

_High Rise. Male. Safehouse Operator._

_Whisper. Unknown. Unknown._

"Who's Whisper?" Danse asked curiously. "They're listed under known associates, but there's no additional information about them."

Quinlan nodded. "That's because we have no information on them, I'm afraid. Our intelligence operatives have overheard the name a few times, but other than that, Whisper is a mystery. We have no idea what they do for the Railroad or who they are."

Danse frowned. Whisper. That name seemed familiar to him, but he couldn't quite place it…wait. Whisp. Deacon had called Myra Whisp, before they'd left to rescue MacCready. He paled. Danse's skin felt suddenly itchy, his throat dry as old bones. "I'm sorry, Quinlan," he rasped, "but I just remembered that Elder Maxson asked me to report to him this afternoon. Thank you for lending me this dossier," he added, handing the file back to the amused Proctor.

"It's unlike you to be so absent-minded, Danse," Quinlan noted with a glint in his eye.

"It has been a trying few weeks," Danse replied, leaving the room quickly and heading for his quarters.

When the Paladin's door closed behind him, he dropped to his knees, shallow, shuddering breaths aching out of him as he tried to process what he'd learned. Suddenly, so much of Myra's behavior made sense. The way she dodged his questions, how she simply vanished sometimes without a trace...How long had she been working for the Railroad? Had she been an agent before they'd even met? Was her dramatic entrance into his life just a ploy to win him over?

Danse didn't want to believe it. He wanted to trust Myra, to have faith in their friendship, the bond they'd built between them. To learn that she was betraying the Brotherhood, was betraying him, for the sake of abominations like synths? That was a crippling blow. He punched the edge of his bed, gasping in pain as his bare fists connected with the rusty metal. Damn it! What was he going to do?

The right course of action, of course, would be to report Myra's crime immediately to Elder Maxson. Arthur would either banish her or order her executed for treason, an example of the cost of betrayal. And that would be no less than what she deserved under the Codex, the laws every Brotherhood soldier was sworn to uphold.

But Danse, for all his devotion to the law, to everything the Brotherhood stood for, couldn't bear to think of turning Myra in. Not without giving her a chance to explain herself. She'd earned that much latitude, as far as he was concerned. He owed her that.

It wasn't the betrayal of the Brotherhood that hurt the most, he realized. It was the personal betrayal. Danse had given everything he had to Myra, had taken her under his wing. Hell, he even was beginning to think that he might love her. To be repaid with such outright deceit angered and devastated him beyond words. If Myra had played him from the start, she was a damn good liar, and there was nothing he hated more than being lied to.

"I'll hear you out," Danse whispered to himself as he laid on the cool floor, staring up at the ceiling. "If you truly are the enemy…" he sighed heavily, trying to calm the nausea that welled inside him at the thought of Myra lying cold and dead at Maxson's feet, of her body being unceremoniously thrown from the foredeck, a traitor's end. It was unbearable even to contemplate.

"I don't know if I could endure that," he murmured, closing his eyes against the harsh lights. "So please, Myra, I'm begging you. Have a good explanation when you return."


	17. The Mother Of Sorrows

**17\. The Mother Of Sorrows (Final Chapter of Volume 2)**

_Myra turns to Deacon for comfort after returning from the Institute. But when things get heated during a mission, can Deacon continue staying by her side?_

* * *

After a week of no contact from Whisper, Deacon was starting to get restless. Had she been captured by the Institute? Killed? From what he'd overheard at his surveillance station outside the Boston Airport, even the Brotherhood wasn't certain what had happened to her. The explosion that had rocked the terminal a week prior had been extraordinarily violent. What if Whisper hadn't made it out in time?

In spite of wanting to wait around for news about his partner, Deacon had left the warehouse after four days. He still needed to find Trailblazer, and whether he liked it or not, the work of a Railroad intelligence operative was never done. With Whisper MIA, he was once more the only agent in his department. The spy could put off the search for Trail for another week or so, if he made himself useful in other ways. If he got extremely lucky, Trailblazer would resurface on her own and save him the discomfort of having to coax her back into the fold.

Deacon wasn't a coward, not exactly. There were facets of his personality that had been locked away in the deep dungeons of his heart, and there they had to remain, no matter the circumstances. The blood-rage that came along with his anger could never see the light of day again, not if he could help it. The spy typically found it easier to avoid confrontation rather than risk letting himself lose control.

But now, by running away from an uncomfortable situation, Deacon had made things so much worse. If he'd just talked to Trailblazer about Tommy's death, the naive and kind agent might still be safe in Stanwix Safehouse. Instead, she was out on her own in a world that would show her no mercy. Deacon couldn't help but feel responsible for her fate. At the same time, he couldn't bear to find out what had happened to her after she'd vanished into the Commonwealth.

So instead of actively looking for her, the spy headed northeast, following the highway towards Salem. It had been months since the last time he'd had a chance to check in with his informants there. After the Switchboard had fallen, the Railroad's safehouse in the region, Randolph, had gone dark, leading HQ to cut off most of their contact with the area until things cooled down again. Technically, Deacon still wasn't supposed to operate along the northern coast, but as it was, he needed to clear out a few of his old caches. If he happened to determine the fate of Randolph Safehouse while he was nearby, that would just be frosting.

As he neared the bottom of the peninsula, however, his inner turmoil compelled him to head east instead of continuing north to Salem. His troubled steps, as they often did, steered him towards Nahant Island. The small island community had been decimated by the War, its peaceful rows of wooden cottages never designed to endure the punishment of nuclear fire. Of those structures that remained, only a few had anything worth exploring, and Deacon knew them all backwards and forwards. Nahant, in spite of its proximity to the raider stronghold of Libertalia, was still a peaceful place. Exploring it always calmed his nerves, gave him a renewed focus.

Arguably his favorite building in the town was the chapel, its tall, white spire providing a gorgeous view of the bay. Sometimes, when he found himself in the area, Deacon would spend hours tucked up in the steeple, enjoying the chance to relax while he could take it. There was a serenity he found there, in spite of the ever-present danger of Mirelurks and raiders. It was towards the small church that he now headed. If nothing else, it would do him some good to feel the breeze off the bay, to let his worries drift off into the crashing waves for a few moments. Besides, it was getting late enough in the day. He could camp there, and resume his journey to Salem in the morning. Anything was better than bedding down on the freeway.

Instead of blissful silence, however, when Deacon approached the chapel door he heard a muffled voice from inside the building. The spy froze, listening carefully as his heart thudded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Someone was intruding on his sanctuary, and he wasn't thrilled about it. It was hard enough finding any quiet place in the Commonwealth, let alone quiet and relatively secure. That someone else was in his space was irritating, and potentially dangerous.

"...but why?" the voice cried softly, filled with unbearable anguish. "How could you do this to me, after everything I've been through?"

Deacon frowned. He knew that voice. It was Whisper's. But who was she talking to? What was she doing here? He eased the door open quietly, sneaking into the narthex. Whisper knelt in the small sanctuary in front of one of the few remaining pews, her head inclined upwards as she continued to speak.

"I don't understand, Lord," she continued, her voice contorted in pain. "I've been trying so hard to do the right thing, to help as many people as I can. Why are you punishing me like this? My son…of all the things you could have willed, why do this to us? Do you even give a shit about us? Or did they kill you too, when they destroyed the world?"

She was oblivious to Deacon's presence as he crept closer, which was for the best. As curious as he was, the spy did not want to disturb her. Deacon's heart ached for her. It was hard to believe after all she'd endured that Whisper still clung to her faith. Perhaps it was a comfort to her, a source of strength. He wasn't entirely sure.

The only people Deacon knew with any sort of religious fervor were the Children of Atom, and they weren't exactly known for their serenity. Well, there was the Brotherhood of Steel, he supposed, and their nearly religious obsession with technology, but that was its own form of crazy. Whisper didn't seem insane, or even a zealot. She just seemed...lost.

"I...I don't know if I can go on," Whisper prayed. "I need a sign, some way to know you have a plan to get me through this mess. I know it's terrible to ask, but I can't do this on my own. I need help. Please, just give me the grace to carry on." She knelt in silence for a few minutes, her eyes still fixed on some blank space above the ambo. What she was looking at or for was anyone's guess. Her lips continued to move even as she watched and waited, continued silent pleas for help spilling from her.

Deacon gently eased himself into the pew behind her, careful not to intrude on her meditation. Even still, the weathered wood seat creaked in quiet protest as he sat. He saw Whisper's shoulders tense, though she continued her silent vigil. After what felt like an hour, she finally looked away, sitting on the pew with a melancholy sigh. "I don't know what I was expecting," she mumbled. "You sure as hell never listened to me before. Why start giving me anything now?"

"Well," Deacon said softly, "I might not be a god, but if it was up to me, I'd have given you laser vision. That'd be cool as hell."

Whisper's abrupt laughter echoed through the empty church, mingling with her residual tears in a choking cry. "I thought it was you, Deacon," she said, gasping for air as she calmed down. "What are you doing here?"

Deacon grinned. "Oh, you know, I was just out for a stroll. But what about you? How long have you been back?"

"It's been a few days," she said, sniffing as she wiped her runny nose and tear-worn eyes on her sleeve. "I...I wasn't sure what I should do, actually. And when that happens, I usually find myself here." She tilted her head back to look at him. "Did you know that I grew up just a few doors down from here? My dad's house is gone now, of course. But we always used to come here for Mass. Hell, I even got married here. St. Tom's has always been my special place, I guess."

Deacon grinned. "Mine too! I like to come here sometimes. Not to pray, or anything. But I love the steeple. It's a good place to sit and reflect."

"That's really crazy," Whisper replied. "Of all the places in the Commonwealth…"

"Tell me about it," the spy agreed. He stood from his pew, climbing over the back of the bench in front of him to sit next to her. "So, I'm sure you realized that I heard, like, that whole thing," he continued. "Spy habit, and all. You might as well fill me in on what happened."

Whisper shook her head. "I'm not sure I should. It's not that I'm unhappy to see you, Deacon, and I do want to talk," she added hastily. "I just...I'm not sure I want Dez knowing about any of this yet."

Deacon chuckled. "Well, what if I promise not to tell her anything until you're ready for her to know?"

She frowned. "You'd do that for me? No offense, Deeks, but you're not exactly the most trustworthy when it comes to keeping secrets. Gathering intel is literally your job."

Deacon had to admit that she had a point. And most of the time, he'd eagerly offer up any kernel of information to his boss without hesitation. But something in the way Whisper looked that night, the way she held her arms crossed over her abdomen like she was guarding a wound… he couldn't bear to see her suffer."Yeah, but blabbing your business isn't," he replied. "Look, I know you don't have any reason to believe me, Whisp, but I just want to help you."

"And you won't tell anyone?"

Deacon nodded. "I mean, if it makes you feel any better, we could go sit in the old confessional over there," he joked, gesturing to a half-decayed wooden box against the wall. "Seal of Confession and all that."

Whisper snorted. "I'm pretty sure that only applies to priests," she mused. "And you're just a Deacon."

"Hey, how do you know I'm not ordained?" the spy retorted. "I was pretty close with an old priest back in Rivet City, you know. Fr. Clifford. He was one heck of an agent. A shame his parish closed down after his death."

"Something tells me, in spite of your codename, that you're not the holy orders type," Whisper replied. "My Bible's a bit rusty, but I'm pretty sure lying's a sin."

" The Ink Spots certainly think so," Deacon mused, humming gently.

Whisper smacked him playfully on the arm. "You know what I mean, you ass."

"My point stands, Whisp," the spy said. "I might not be the most reliable man in the world, but if you need me to keep your secrets, I will. But act now!" he continued in his best advertiser voice, "This offer is limited!"

She sighed. "Fine. I...God, where do I begin?"

"Well, you're not a ghost," Deacon offered, "so obviously the Signal Interceptor worked. Maybe start with what happened after that."

Whisper took a shaky breath. "It was strange. When I arrived, there wasn't anyone around, just a few computers in a startlingly clean room. When I stepped inside, I expected the Institute guards would swarm me right away. But instead, I heard a voice over the intercom. A man's voice. He welcomed me, told me his name was Father."

Deacon snorted. "He actually called himself Father? Well, that's not creepy in the slightest."

"It gets worse," Whisper continued. "He told me that he was going to let me see my son, kept telling me about how I was misinformed, that the Institute wanted to save humanity. I took this elevator through this huge, clean facility...and then there he was. My boy, Shaun. He looked exactly like I saw him in Kellogg's memories, with my eyes and Nate's wavy ginger hair that never fucking behaved..." she trailed off, trembling slightly. Deacon didn't ask her any further questions, just waited for her to continue. "Deeks," she said at last, her voice full of trepidation "it was terrible. Shaun was terrified of me. He cried out for that man, Father. And then, this old man entered the room and used some sort of recall code on him. Shaun...he was a synth the whole time, Deacon."

"Shit!" Deacon exclaimed. He honestly hadn't been expecting that. As far as he knew, the Institute had never created a synth child before. That bit of news definitely had some serious ramifications for the Railroad's work. "So, what happened to your real son?" he asked. "Do you know?"

Whisper looked up at him, her emerald eyes bloodshot and full of uncertainty. "My son...he's Father. He's the fucking head of the Institute."

"What?" Deacon stared at her, gobsmacked. "How's that possible?"

"Apparently, my husband didn't die a decade ago," Whisper replied softly, wringing her hands. "He died almost 60 years ago. I was...I was frozen for that long."

Deacon frowned. "Whisp, it wouldn't be the first time that the Institute lied. Maybe-"

"That's the worst part," she interrupted, her voice shaking. "I know Father's telling the truth. He looks so much like Nate's dad, there's no way he's not our son. But I missed everything. He's an old man, now. I never got to see him take his first steps. I never got to teach him to ride a bicycle..." She laughed bitterly. "Most importantly, I guess I never got to teach him not to be a slave-making monster. The Institute...what they've done to my baby…" Whisper broke down in deep, soul-wrenching sobs.

"Damn it," Deacon muttered, taking her hands in his. "Whisp, I'm so sorry. Damned Institute. Is there nothing they won't destroy to further their own ends?"

Whisper squeezed his hands tightly as she continued to weep, gasping, shallow breaths punctuated by heaving cries of torment. Deacon wished there was more he could do for her. Part of him wanted to just take her in his arms, to protect her was much as he could from the pain that consumed her, and he nearly acted on that impulse. But he held himself back. No. He'd already crossed one too many lines with her. If things went any further, if anyone saw and misinterpreted what was going on...he couldn't risk it. So instead, he just sat awkwardly next to her as she wailed, hoping that his presence, at least, might give her some comfort.

Eventually, Whisper's breathing slowed, and she blew her mucus-filled nose on a small scrap of cloth she'd extracted from her bag. She stared at the filthy cloth for a long while, her bloodshot eyes filled with guilt. Deacon couldn't even begin to guess the cause, at least until she spoke.

"Deeks, I can't go back to the Brotherhood," Whisper said emphatically, standing from her pew. She paced across the floor in front of Deacon, rambling almost hysterically. "I just can't. How am I supposed to look Danse, Maxson, any of them in the eye, knowing what I know? They want to kill my son...a man I don't even know. But he's my son, my baby...how can I hurt my baby?"

"Then don't go back," Deacon replied calmly. "You have no obligation to, Whisp. They don't know you made it out of the Institute yet, right? They probably think you're dead. If not, we can fake your death or something. They never have to know. How's a freak deathclaw-riding accident sound? Too much?"

"Deacon…" Whisper warned.

"Not enough?" he asked. "Well, I could say you ran off and joined the Children of Atom. I did that for a few months, you know. The chanting was a bit maddening, but the outfits were fun."

Whisper groaned. "Deacon, I can't. I have to report in, or Danse will be punished. I can't do that to him, after everything. He deserves more than that. He deserves the truth."

Deacon shook his head, standing to meet her. "No. Whisper, I can't let you do this to yourself. Just...damn it, just stay with me. Together, I know we can figure out a solution."

"I...I can't," she replied, looking down at her feet as she fussed. "I can't tell the Railroad about Shaun either. What would Dez do, if she knew the truth? There's no one I can turn to, Deacon. I don't have anyone I can trust."

That was it. Before he had a chance to stop himself, Deacon caught her wrist as she paced frantically past him, pulling her into a tight embrace. Whisper struggled against him for a moment before settling into his arms, her cheek flush with his. The soft, subtle scent of her homemade shampoo filled his nose, and he had to fight the instinctual urge to bury his face in her brilliant white hair.

"You have me, Whisp," he said softly. "Whatever you need, I'll help you." And for once, he knew that he completely meant it. In spite of his best efforts, in spite of his own reservations, Deacon would do anything for Whisper...for Myra. The realization was terrifying, but somehow, he couldn't back down. Not now. Not as long as she needed him.

"I thought you weren't a hugger," she mused after a while as he held her.

"I'm not," he replied with a smile, "but who's gonna believe you if you tell them this happened?"

She chuckled. "You're an absolute bastard sometimes, Deacon, you know that?"

"Eh, I've been called worse," Deacon said, releasing his grip on her. "So, how about it? You and me, the open road, some awesome undercover hijinks?" The spy grinned warmly at Myra. "Come on, a little danger's just what you need to take your mind off things. And I've got just the plan. Before I ran into you, I was on my way to Salem. I've got a contact up there, real nice guy. Frequents a bar run out of an old garage across the North River. I've been meaning to reestablish contact for months. It should be a nice, easy job. Are you in?"

"I guess," Myra said glumly. "But you know that running away from everything isn't a solution. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to face this."

"Yeah," Deacon replied, "but let's worry about that later. Right now, what you need is a distraction."

She sighed. "Okay. I guess I could use some fun. But only if I get to wear something cute. It's been a while since I've had an occasion."

Deacon nodded. "We'll stop by one of my caches first. I don't keep a lot of women's clothes lying around, but I should have a few things you could try on." He eyed her carefully. "I mean, you're taller than the last woman I stocked clothes for, but I think we can make it work."

Myra's tear-worn eyes lit up like those of a dog who had been promised a scrap of meat. "The last woman? Oh, I can't wait to hear all about that."

Deacon shook his head. "Come on, Whisp. You know I'll just make something up anyway. Why do you even bother?"

"One of these days, you'll tell me the truth," she replied with a soft smile. "You won't be able to help yourself."

The spy chuckled, trying to cover his doubts. "Like I'm that easy. Besides, if I told you the truth, I'd lose all my mystique, and then you'd leave. I can't have that, now, can I?"

Myra echoed his laugh. "Definitely. I bet you're actually boring as hell."

"Not that boring seems to be a problem for you," Deacon replied. "I mean, you like Danse, and I've never met anyone more boring than that guy."

Her smile faded. "I don't want to talk about Danse right now," she said. "Not until I've figured out what I'm going to tell him about Shau...about Father."

Deacon cursed himself inwardly. "Okay," he said. "Let's not think about any of that stuff. Hell, if you want, we don't have to think about anything at all."

She nodded. "Yeah. Not thinking for once sounds great. Now, you mentioned a bar. I assume there's alcohol there."

The spy grinned. "You know there is."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Myra replied. "Let's get going!"

"Whisp," Deacon warned. "We're going to work, not to get drunk."

She frowned. "I can do both."

Yeah. This was a really terrible idea. But Deacon couldn't bring himself to tell her no. After what Myra had been through in the last week, she'd earned a little stupidity. And hell, what was the worst that could happen?

* * *

_The Puritan's Vice_ would have been an unremarkable pub, except for its location on the ridge of a tall spit overlooking the river. It was evening when Deacon and Myra arrived at the bar, and the gentle neon glow from its exterior shone like a beacon against the brackish waters like a siren call for boozehounds. The building itself was fairly small, four or five diner booths and a long bar taking up a great portion of the available space in the dining area. Behind the bar was a small but respectable kitchen, offering a selection of well-curated snacks to ease the flow of alcohol. Outside, several rowboats had been converted into the roof of a large deck, where a handful of additional tables in various states of disrepair served to expand the dining room.

"So when's this contact of yours supposed to show up?" Myra asked quietly, swirling her second whiskey gently in her glass. She sat beside Deacon in one of the weathered old diner booths, her striking hair brushed and pinned elegantly around the top of her neck. The dress she'd chosen from the cache, a simple green cotton number, clung to her every curve. It might have been slightly too tight, but hell if the spy was going to complain. As far as Deacon was willing to admit, she looked stunning.

"We're early," Deacon replied with a sigh. "Always best to check out the crowd before any secret dealings. 'Hasn't that idiot Deacon taught you anything?'" he added in a pretty spot-on impression of Dr. Carrington.

She chuckled, "No, he's usually too busy fooling around to tell me anything important."

Deacon huffed, casually throwing an arm over her shoulder. He leaned in close to her ear, nearly pressing his lips to the delicate skin. "As if anyone could ever fool around on you, beautiful," he whispered. The spy did his best to ignore the alarm bells in his mind. Just for tonight, he'd decided, Railroad protocol could fuck right off. Myra had been through hell. She deserved some fun.

Myra gasped as his breath tickled her skin, her shoulders tensing. "God damn it, I'm trying to concentrate on the job."

"So am I," Deacon protested. "You're the one who said it'd be fun if we went undercover as a couple when I asked what cover you were comfortable with. I recommended that you play my sister. Or did you forget?"

"There's undercover," she hissed back, "and then there's...whatever this is. I'm getting tired of your games."

"Liar," he protested. "You love my games."

"Takes one to know one," she replied, pulling away from him. "Fine. Let's play. First one to slip out of character owes the other one dinner. And I want that awesome brahmin steak they serve at the Colonial Taphouse . The one that costs 300 caps."

Deacon smirked. "Oh, you foolish fool. Don't you know I never break character?"

"Then this should be easy for you, shouldn't it, handsome?" she asked, gazing up at him with those damned emerald eyes.

Deacon was once again extraordinarily grateful for his sunglasses, though he wished the lights in the bar were a little dimmer to hide his blush. His subconscious berated him for his behavior. She was the one drinking, so why was he letting his guard down? Why was he so eager to play with fire, after everything he'd witnessed? "Like taking caps from a dead man's pocket," he replied, "darling."

Myra laughed hoarsely, tossing back her drink. "Barkeep!" she called, shaking the glass in the air. Deacon frowned, pulling her arm back down.

"I know you're new to this business, Hope," he hissed, "but we're supposed to be avoiding drawing attention to ourselves. Don't want to spook our supplier."

"Oh, so that means I can't have another round, Davey?" she asked, pouting slightly. "I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to marry you, you cheapskate."

Deacon stifled a laugh, taking her glass. "Fine. Wait here." He walked to the bar, eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble. So far, everything looked fine, which worried him. The Commonwealth was teeming with suspicious people. That a bar at this time of night would be bereft of a few rough bastards was unlikely. Something told him that this was a setup.

"Seems quiet tonight," he said to Myra when he returned with her whiskey.

Myra nodded. "Like the world itself is stopped, just for us," she murmured demurely. Her eyes flashed with concern as they met his, but she quickly played it off with a gentle smile.

Deacon sat back down next to her, resting an arm casually around her shoulder. "With you here," he mused, "I think I could handle that."

"One of you two had better have a geiger counter," grumbled a gravelly voice as a figure approached their booth. The newcomer was short and lean, wearing a filthy gray suit that was about two sizes too big for him. His dirty blond hair was matted and long, kept contained somewhat by a dark fedora. Deacon grinned as the man slid in across from them.

"Sorry, pal. Mine is in the shop," Deacon replied. "Remind me to teach you the new code before I leave," he added in a low whisper.

The newcomer looked Myra over appraisingly, his rheumy eyes curious. "Long time no contact. I thought you were dead. Who's the broad? Another of your... packages?"

Deacon shook his head. "Who'd kill little old Scavver Dave? I'm too lovable." he gestured to Myra. "This here's my wife, Hope. We're celebrating our honeymoon. I told her to stay back at camp, but she insisted on coming along for this meet and greet. Hope, honey, this is Mr. Morrow. He's in the scavving business too."

Myra shot Morrow a winning smile. "It's a real pleasure," she said. "Davey never introduces me to his friends. I keep telling him, how am I supposed to be a good hostess if I don't ever get a chance to entertain?"

"Well, if you stopped inviting your brothers around so often," Deacon said playfully, "my friends might be more comfortable with you."

Myra chuckled, kicking him under the table. "So, have any scrap we might be interested in buying off of you? My dear husband promised me something nice for a wedding present, as if being with him wasn't a present in itself."

Morrow nodded with a chuckle. "You lucky dog. As a matter of fact, I have a nice watch here that would suit the lady perfectly," he replied, pulling a beautiful silver wristwatch out of his blazer pocket and sliding it across the table.

Deacon intercepted the piece, studying it closely. He noted with satisfaction that the battery compartment was slightly loose, a tiny scrap of paper peeking out around one of the seams. "How much?" he asked.

"There are quite a few fellows interested in that particular item," Morrow said quietly. "You'd better make me a pretty good offer...Scavver Dave."

The spy frowned. So the tourist was being followed. Fantastic. "Hope, honey," Deacon said, "would you like to try the watch on?"

Myra gasped. "Oh, darling, it's beautiful!" she gushed as she clasped the metal chain around her slight, ivory wrist. "I love it."

"Well, I love you," Deacon replied with a warm smile. "Only the best for my little woman."

Myra blushed, a gorgeous rosy hue igniting her freckled cheeks. "Oh, stop!" she giggled. "You're too much!"

"That's why you married me," Deacon mused. "Well, Morrow, I guess we'll pay up. She's fallen in love, and how can a guy like me ever say no to a girl like her?"

Morrow smiled nervously. "20, no...30 caps should do," the man replied. "Let me settle my tab from the other night with the barkeep, and I'll be back to collect."

Deacon nodded, and the tourist slipped from the booth, carefully making his way over to the bar. "He's hot," the spy whispered in his partner's ear as he caressed her other cheek. "Keep an eye out for trouble."

"I hope you have a plan," Myra murmured, smiling coyly as she pulled his hand from her face, rubbing her thumb slowly across his fingers.

"You'd better be cool with improvising," Deacon mused, "because I think we're out of time." Myra shivered as the spy's lips grazed her neck. "You see those two guys who just came in?" he murmured into her skin.

"Y...yeah," she moaned softly. "And the other one who's been clocking Morrow from the deck?"

"Mmhmm," he replied. "I think those are the guys who are after our tourist."

"What's our play?" Myra asked, her free hand already reaching for the knife she kept at her hip. "Distraction, or do we risk a fight?"

Deacon sighed. "Given the tight quarters, I'm going to vote for distraction. There's too many people in here to risk a brawl."

"I think we can manage that," Myra said, leaning in and capturing his lips with her own.

Deacon froze, his whole body tensing up at the contact. This was not in the script. He'd told Myra to improvise, but he hadn't meant for her to kiss him. Still, Deacon knew they were committed to this bit now, for better or worse. And, once he got past the smoky heat of whiskey on her lips, it wasn't the most unpleasant choice he could think of.

The spy kissed her back hungrily, trying to sell the role of a newlywed. Myra's soft lips felt like satin against his as they parted with a heady gasp. She moaned against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he scooped her out of the booth, lifting her into his arms. She was lighter than he would have expected, though Deacon suspected that the adrenaline surging through his veins might have had something to do with it as well.

Deacon broke their kiss as he staggered to the bar, depositing Myra on the counter. His lips trailed slowly down Myra's throat, leaving gentle nibbles in their wake as his eyes swept the room. Excellent. Everyone was staring at them, including their marks. Some of the bar's patrons glared at the pair, clearly unhappy with their antics. Others grinned lasciviously, eager to see more. Deacon smiled as he saw the kitchen door swing shut. Morrow was on the move. Just a little bit longer, and the tourist would be home free. Myra gasped as the spy's hand ran down the side of her stomach, finding a sensitive spot. He smirked. So she was ticklish. He'd have to remember that for later.

Deacon tried to keep his mind on the mission and off of his fellow agent, but the longer their ruse continued, the harder it was for him to remember that this was all an act. It felt so damn good to touch her, to have her touch him. He felt a gentle heat rising just beneath his skin, a fire that had not stirred in many long years. Not since…

"I love you so much," Myra gasped, leaning down to capture his lips.

With a sudden burst of trepidation, Deacon pulled away from her, breathless. His heart raced in his chest so quickly that it felt like he was going to pass out. What the hell was he doing? This wasn't how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be keeping Whisper at arm's length, not ravishing Myra in front of a live audience. Distraction or not, this was too much. And hearing those words from her...

"I'm sorry," he managed before running out into the night, his mind reeling as he struggled to breathe.

"Davey, come back!" Myra's voice called after him.

Deacon sighed, feeling incredibly foolish. He'd forgotten about the damn bet. She was still playing, still committed to her character. She hadn't meant any of it. But he'd stopped pretending minutes ago. He stared down at his hands in disgust, his fingers haunted by the memory of her supple body.

What the hell was his problem? He'd run these sort of undercover missions before. Hell, he'd even engaged in similar gambits with other assets for one reason or another. But in the past, he'd always been able to keep his head. He'd compartmentalized, never forgetting that it was business. With Whisper, though, things were different. He'd wanted things to get out of control. He'd wanted to forget that it was work. He'd wanted it to be real.

"This can't be happening," he murmured. "Not now. Not to me."

"Deacon?" Myra asked, startling him. She appeared beside him, her concerned eyes focused on his face. "Is everything ok?"

He nodded. "Morrow is in the clear. We did it."

"I wasn't asking about the job," she continued softly. "Deacon, what happened back there...I...that was…"

"That was business," he replied coldly, turning away from her. "You did well."

Myra drew in a sharp breath. "Deacon, that didn't feel like business. Maybe I'm just not used to this, but I…"

"That's right," he retorted harsher than he meant to, exactly as harshly as he needed to. "You're not used to this. Look, I'm sorry, but whatever you think that was, I promise you, you're wrong."

"Then why can't you look at me?" she asked, walking around to face him. "Why did you leave, if I'm wrong?"

"Just leave me alone," he hissed. "Go back to the Brotherhood before your precious Paladin gets in trouble."

Myra's eyes widened. "What happened to me staying with you?"

"You can't," Deacon said. "You were right all along. You have a responsibility to report back in. I was selfish to ask you to stay."

Myra took his hands in hers gently. "Maybe I want you to be selfish," she replied. "Deacon, please. If I did something wrong, just tell me. I know that was a little intense but I-"

He pulled away from her, his face contorting in disgust. "Don't touch me! I told you to go!"

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes brimming with tears. "Damn it, Deacon, I thought we were friends. Maybe even…" she sighed. "If you want to be miserable, fine. I'll leave. When you come to your senses, come find me."

Myra pulled her pack tighter over her shoulder before running off into the night, a strangled sob lingering after her, replaying over and over in Deacon's ears.

The spy sank to the ground, his lower lip quivering slightly. It had been the right thing, putting a stop to their game before things had gone too far. He'd done his duty by the Railroad, and he'd saved her the trouble of getting too invested in a charade. So why did it feel like he'd just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life?

It was the heat of the moment, Deacon rationalized. He wasn't thinking clearly. His worry for Myra and desire to cheer her up were natural. That he'd felt attached to her was normal, given the circumstances. Sure, he'd overreacted after the fact, but he had rules to abide by. He'd give her a few days to forgive him, and then he'd track her down, would apologize for his bad behavior. They had only been toying with each other. She'd forgive him, definitely.

A strangled cry pulled Deacon out of his thoughts, and he ran behind the bar, his stomach clenched. There, gurgling on his own blood, was Morrow, his throat torn open. The dying man locked eyes with the spy, desperately reaching for him. His body contorted in pain, making his fingers look like the claws of some cursed beast as they curled. Deacon glanced around in panic, trying to see who had attacked his informant, but there was no one around.

"It'll be okay," the spy soothed as he knelt to examine Morrow's injuries. The tourist took a few shuddering rasps before life left him, his eyes frozen wide in horror. Deacon groaned. There was nothing he could do for the man now. All the spy could do was gather intel that would hopefully prevent more tourists from facing similar fates.

The wounds Morrow bore were strikingly similar to others he'd seen recently on the bodies the Railroad had recovered from fallen safehouses. Small cuts and scratches in various depths dotted the man's body, as though a flock of crows had confused him with carrion. But there were no real crows, not any more. Those that remained were artificial, the spies and agents of the Institute. Watchers, trained to observe and recall, apparently now also authorized to kill. If they'd seen Myra with Morrow and Deacon, given her recent trip to the Institute, she could be in real danger.

Choking back a cry of fear, Deacon ran into the night, following the path that Myra had taken. How the hell had he let himself be so stupid? He searched the area for hours, trying to determine where his partner had gone. But it was hopeless. Myra had vanished like a wraith, leaving behind only regret and the faint taste of whiskey that still lingered on Deacon's lips. 

* * *

_A/N: Well, that's it for Volume 2. Man, there's a lot to process in this one, even though it's short. These last few chapters have been a doozy to write! Between Deacon getting a little too invested and Danse having trouble trusting Myra, I'll be having a feels hangover for a few days...hope you guys are holding up!_

_Fun Fact: St. Thomas Aquinas Church is one of two churches in the actual village of Nahant, and neither of them look like the chapel in game or are located on the same spot. The real St. Thomas Aquinas parish is located just south of where Croup Manor is. The other church is the Nahant Village Church, and it's on the southeastern edge of the island. I went with the former as the chapel's "real" identity because it was a special place for Myra._

_I've decided that our side story this time will be about Myra and Nate and how they met, since we need something sweet as a break from all the feels. I'll begin uploading that story next week, so keep an eye out for it. Volume 3 of the main story will start as soon as I have a large enough backlog finished. Thanks again for reading! I appreciate all your support!_


	18. NEXT STORY HAS BEGUN

**A new Side-Story, "For Love We Will Tear Us Down" has begun! Check my writer profile!**

**Love and Adventure,**

**-Mnemoli**


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